No One's Frail
by auroraraye
Summary: Sabretooth kidnaps the young Rachel Grey as bait for Wolverine. But what began as a cat-and-mouse game evolves into something more, and Creed finds himself in over his head.
1. My Favorite Scent

Fuck, I love the smell of woman in the morning. I ain't fed in days and the heat dries my mouth. For two weeks now I been curled inside a hotbox of a car, lookin' at nothing but orange sand. But now my eyes feast. Soon the rest of me will, too. I smile at the thought.

I can see why the runt chases her. Jean Grey, main tease of the X-geeks, jumps dunes, straddling some sort of quad, with that sexy red hair whippin' behind her in the wind. Every time she connects with the sand, her breasts bounce under a tight, white tank top. I'm gonna enjoy rippin' her flesh off that pretty frame. I'd love to save her kill to the last, savor every little scream and sob. But the trouble with telepaths is they have a nasty habit of soundin' the alarm—even if you tear out their vocal cords. No, she has to go first, quick and painless, before she even knows I'm on top of her, or her one-eyed lover'll be hot on my tail in seconds.

She pulls a sharp about-face on the quad and races back to drive over the dunes one last time. Fast as lightning, I'm after her. I sprint on all fours, sucking air through my nose so as not to growl breaths down the throat. But even I can't out-stealth a psychic. I'm 'bout a dozen paces from the rear wheel when she starts to glance over her shoulder. I lunge. My body hits the sand and I let the momentum throw me forward into the machine. We crash. Then we roll. Somewhere in the middle of our third somersault, her back passes my face in mid-air. Perfect. My left hand grabs her shoulder and my right arm slides 'round her waist. I plunge my fangs deep into her brainstem before we even hit the ground.

Finally, our bodies come to a halt, with scattered engine parts all 'round. I stand, lookin' down at my prize. It's a shame I had to give such a boring death to this beauty. Even as a corpse, she's like a wet dream. I'll have to come back and feed. Least that way, she won't be a total waste.

I hike to a small camp of five RV's jus' at sunrise, and tearin' through the first four trailers is easy. Looks like I've interrupted a good ol' Summers family reunion; among the dead're Corsair, Polaris and that twit Havok. Then I reach Cyclops' wheels. I've been waitin' to hold this man's jugular in my fist since he first cut me off the runt's trail in New York a decade ago. The flimsy door busts open with a kick and he's standin' there, waitin' for me, his hands on those pretty-boy shades. I can't help but chuckle. And then the glasses come off.

The blast from his eyes throws me on my back in the sand, and a smoking hole gapes open in my chest. With a cough, blood floods my lungs and esophagus. Poor Cyke don't know this is my favorite part of the fight. Once I taste the blood—mine or anyone else's—lust just takes over. He marches out of the trailer, but I'm already up and chargin' him. My chest still sizzling, I slash at the man over and over. His body squirts liquid iron in great heaping pools. Long after he's dead, I come to out of the high, my entire front drenched, my jaw achin' from the roar. Chest heavin', I breathe in the smell of death. A new scent tickles my nostrils. Aw, yes. I almost forgot about the kid.

I enter the trailer and immediately head to the table, where my nose tells me a small one is crouched, scared to death. I drop to my knee and look under the plank of ply wood. The girl's tiny—I'd say about six years old—and everything 'bout her is feral. Her torso is curled behind her knees, set to launch forward in full flight mode, and tears glisten behind a few red curls that hang in her face. Shakily, she raises a handgun. I laugh, and grab the thing by the scrape of its neck. I drag the puny body into the morning sand, throw it down beside the dead father and kneel down so that those big, green, teary eyes are just a couple inches from my own.

"Let's see what you've got," I growl. I've killed countless children and experience has shown, no matter what you do to them, they just can't cross that line into cold-blooded murder. A kid with a gun is no more a threat than some ankle-biting pup. I wrap my hand around the barrel of the gun and pull it to my chest. "Go ahead."

_Just pull the trigger_, I think softly. _It's so easy. Just pull it._

Her eyes are wet with a hybrid of terror and despair, and she's grippin' that glock like her last bit of cliff edge before the plunge. This girl knows I killed everyone she loves. She knows she's next.

_What're you waitin' for? It's gonna be you or me, so shift the odds in your favor. Just pull the trigger._

Her pupils are fully dilated and her brain's pulsating adrenaline and cortisol in equal measure, her little body's way of preparing for a death blow. And best of all, she's givin' me scents I haven't had in years. I lean into her collar and breathe her in.

I love a victim's chemical aroma in their last moments, and the younger the better. A kid's feelings aren't muddled by thoughts and interpretations like an adult's. What they experience, they feel, straight. _Pull the trigger._ Their pure, unbridled emotions are almost enough to send a mutant with enhanced senses into an orgasm—or a meltdown, dependin' on your preferences.

_Come on, baby. You know you want to. Do it._

The kid is all lead (fear) and steam (survival) and acid (nausea). Without movin', she glances at her daddy's bloody face—or lack of face—and then meets my gaze again.

_PULL THE GODDAMNED TRIGGER!_

In a single second, she changes. She furrows her brow and drags in one deep breath. The barrel of the gun lifts from my chest and lands hard on my forehead. I catch my favorite scent of all—burnin' cold mercury. Hatred.

BANG!

For a second, my ears ring. And then it all goes blank.


	2. The Monster

I'm screaming. That's always first. I'm screaming. Then I'm hot. Then it's dark and I hear Mommy and Daddy groan awake. She doesn't say a word. She just bolts out of bed, picks me up, folds her legs Indian-style, sits me in her lap. Her arms hug me and I cry just a little. Now her fingers comb my hair. We never speak. Our psychic rapport (that's a fancy way of saying "psychic bond") says more than words. She knows the nightmare. I keep having the same nightmare and I think sometimes I put it in her head without meaning to. Telepaths can do that sometimes.

Daddy turns to us and whispers, "The same nightmare with the monster?"

Mommy nods and I think she's saying something to him with her powers. I don't listen. I'm not supposed to listen to other people's minds unless they tell me it's okay. I'm tired, anyway. I yawn big and nuzzle Mommy's chest. My eyelids are heavy.

* * *

And then I hear Mommy scream. It's a horrible sound and it's coming from deep inside me. That's never happened before. My eyes pop open. It's getting lighter but the sun's not up yet and I'm laying back down in my bed under my sheet. I sit up straight and call out to Mommy in my head as loud as I can. Nobody yells back to me.

I jump up, run to Daddy's bed and shake his arm hard. His head jumps. "Hey, baby girl. It was just a nightmare; everything's okay." He starts to put his arm around me, but I shake him again.

"Mommy's hurt!" is all I can say. I don't understand what's going on, but I know one thing. My mother is in trouble.

Daddy's face squints behind his sunglasses and I can tell he's trying to call her. He has a psychic rapport with Mommy, too, even though he's not psychic. That's how you can tell if a telepath is really in love—they can make a rapport with their true love, like something from a fairy tale.

Daddy whips his covers off and pulls on jeans and a t-shirt fast. He grabs the binoculars and scans the hills. I peep into his head to find out what he's doing. Grandpa says you're allowed to use your powers however you need to in emergencies. I'm pretty sure Mommy's hurt. That makes this an emergency.

Daddy's mind is racing. He thinks Mommy's dead. She can't be dead. He's thinking it, too, over and over again. _She can't be dead. She can't be dead. She can't be dead._ His binoculars find a pile of smoke on the horizon—oh, THAT's what a "horizon" is—and he zooms in for a closer look.

The smoke is black. Daddy's brain says that natural fires, like wood fires, burn white smoke and mechanical fires burn black smoke. He looks at the grown-up toys all parked in a row on the sand. One of the quads is missing. So he thinks Mommy was riding a quad and now it's burning. _Damn it, Jean_, he thinks. _How many times have I told you not to go off on your own?! _I don't think he should be mad at her right now. He turns to me.

"I'm not mad at her. And she's gonna be fine; you'll see. I need you to do me a favor, okay? I need you to hide." He pushes me under the table by the window. He disappears for a second, then comes back with a gun. "These are really easy to work," he says, "but it's very important that you hold it right so you don't hurt yourself." He puts the gun in my hand, pointed at the floor.

I enter his mind and find his memories. Right in the very front row is everything he knows about guns. I take it all from him in no time at all. I see something called an "eight millimeter handgun", inside and out, and I remember a hundred practices at the shooting range back home, and I feel his fear. He's afraid I'm going to hurt myself. He really doesn't want to give me the handgun, but he's afraid he'll be too hurt to protect me and he doesn't want to leave me without it. I'm getting scared now. Why would he be too hurt?

There's a loud crash at the RV next to our's—it's Uncle Alex's trailer—and I hear Aunt Lorna scream. Now she's choking. I know Daddy needs to go and fight and stop worrying about me. I pull the safety on the handgun back, check that it's loaded and aim the barrel at the door to show my dad that I'm going to be okay with the gun. He must know that I learned his gun tricks because he nods and turns to the door. He comes back to me real quick, hugs me tight and kisses my forehead. I can't see his eyes behind his glasses but I know there are tears there. I think I'm crying, too.

Daddy stands in front of the door with his hand on his sunglasses. From inside his head, I hear him count the seconds. _One. Two. Three. Four_. There's a kick and the whole door flies in and crashes at the floor. Daddy pulls off his glasses and his vision goes all red. A huge man that he calls Sabretooth falls back and Daddy can see through his whole chest. But the bones are re-growing themselves. Daddy's not surprised. He jumps outside, thinking he has to tear Sabretooth apart as fast as possible, before he really heals. But Sabretooth is already charging at Daddy. They hit the ground hard and Sabretooth roars so loud it hurts my daddy's ears. Without any warning, he's scratching Daddy's face. I hear him scream, both out loud and inside my head. Sabretooth keeps scratching and roaring and slashing. Daddy keeps screaming. I can't tell if I'm screaming or not, but I've dropped the gun and I'm clutching my face. It hurts so much. I have to back out of my dad's mind.

Pretty soon, my Daddy stops screaming. He takes a really small breath and then I feel like a light inside me goes all black. I try to reach back out to him, but everything in his body is empty and cold. There's no mind there. My Daddy is dead. My Daddy is dead and my Mommy is dead and everyone is dead. I cover my mouth to stop the sobbing and I pick the gun back up.

Sabretooth is still roaring and tearing at Daddy's body. When he finally stops, he's out of breath. I hear him scuffling around outside. Then he reaches the first step on the RV and the whole trailer sags. He's like three heavy men all at once. A huge foot stops right in front of me. Then a knee. Then the face. All I can see is long tangled hair everywhere and glowing gold mean terrible eyes and bloody fangs.

It's the monster from my nightmare.

I point the gun straight at him, like from Daddy's memories, but my hands shake. He laughs cold, and grabs my neck. He throws me down on the sand outside next to Daddy. He's close, right up in my face, and his breath is hot.

"Let's see what you've got," he says. Then he pulls the gun right into his chest. "Go ahead."

I wonder if I could control him. But I'm so scared. I can't even shield my mind at practice. I try to enter his head.

_Just pull the trigger_, I hear him think. _It's so easy. Just pull it._

I start to see pictures of Sabretooth firing guns. He looks a little younger. And he's in the middle of a war. And he's shooting so many men and blood is everywhere. NO! I pull myself back. I don't want to see it. I need to stay on the very tip top of his thoughts. I can't go deep. I try to enter his mind again, easy and slow.

_What're you waitin' for? It's gonna be you or me, so shift the odds in your favor. Just pull the trigger._

I try to tell him to turn around. I tell him to turn around and walk into the sunrise. But the words are a whisper, even to me. I don't think he hears me at all. Now he's closer. His nose is on my shoulder and he's…he's **smelling** me. Something in his brain goes hard.

_Pull the trigger. Come on, baby. You know you want to. Do it._

His mind fills with all kinds of horrible thoughts. I see blood and bodies and teeth and sweat. I don't understand it all, but it's horrible. I just want it all to stop. I glance away and my eyes land down on my Daddy. His face is gone. The skull underneath is shattered. There's a huge pool of blood. There are bits of skin and meat everywhere. This evil monster killed my father.

_PULL THE GODDAMNED TRIGGER!_

I hate him. I take a deep breath. I try to remember what Daddy looked like using guns. I remember the big hole in Sabretooth that closed right away. I lift the barrel of the gun off his chest and push it into his forehead instead. I HATE HIM!

I wrap my pointer finger around the trigger and pull hard.

His body falls back, slower than I thought it would. I look down at the head with the tiny hole. There isn't even any blood on his face, but a dark puddle grows under him. The eyes aren't gold now. They're black and staring up at nothing.

I remember something from Sabretooth's thoughts. I spit on the ground beside him.

"Go to hell, you fucking asshole."


	3. Her First Lesson

My stomach's solid and burning hot. Always happens 'round blood, but this is worse'n usual. Whoever's bleeding, it must be one helluva mess. Suddenly I realize my head's spinning somethin' fierce, and when I try to lift my skull off the ground, it feels like lead. Right. I remember now. It's my blood. When I peel back my eyelids, my pupils are met with all the glare of a midday sun. So it took me, what, seven, maybe eight hours to recover? Just confirms what my gut is already tellin' me—I bled out.

The kid actually shot me. I can't help but be impressed. I should probably be pissed, but it ain't anger that makes me chuckle. Well, for now the rest of the family is dead. They're sure to be missed, and once Wolverine hears Jean is MIA, he'll track her scent here within a few days. That'll do the job I wanted all along. And I think I'll use the girl to make an even better game with the runt.

Slowly, I roll to my side, get to my knees, stand on my feet. I look down. Those boots feel very far away. Back inside Cyclops' trailer, I find everything I need: a duffle bag crammed with the girl's clothes, some sort of portable video game system, and a pre-packed lunch in the little frig. I write a short note.

"She's almost as beautiful as her mother. Going to enjoy myself. Been way too long. If you want to make things more interesting, we'll be at The Mesa."

I follow the line of tiny footprints 'round Cyke's mangled body over the hillside, into the desert wasteland.

* * *

Something's touching me. I slip one eye open just slightly, and I see a thick metal pole, the crotch of a pair of jeans, and a huge steel-toed boot, which is nudging me in the ribs. I jerk awake. When I bolt upright into a sitting position, I find that I'm in some sort of restaurant, sitting at a table with the monster. Sabretooth, I remember. His name is Sabretooth. He barely gives me any notice. He's digging into a bloody steak like he's a dog, and he points his fork at a plate in front of me. "Eat."

There's a cheeseburger and fries before me, along with both a giant glass of water and another glass filled with soda. Where are we? The last thing I remember is walking in the desert. Walking for hours. I think I must've passed out. I look around. We're sitting next to a window, and outside are a ton of semi-trucks. A truck stop. I remember one just like this from one of Logan's memories. Every pair of eyes in the place is staring at us with—what? Confusion? Concern? Distrust, I decide. For a moment, I consider screaming for help. I could just get up and run for the door.

Like he's reading my mind, Sabretooth says, "You wouldn't get far. For one thing, you're completely dehydrated. That right there is protein, salt, sugar and water. Everythin' you need to get your blood sugar back up."

My stomach growls and then it hurts. God, now that I'm thinking about it, everything hurts, and my right hand is shaking. I grab the hamburger and take a huge bite. Forget it. I'll think about escape in a few minutes, after I've eaten. I shove a couple of fries in with the burger. I swallow, take several huge gulps of water, then wash it all down with a swig of soda.

Chewing the last of my cheeseburger, I look down. With a jolt of shock, I realize that I'm in the tank top and jeans that I wore on the road trip out to the desert. What happened to my PJ's?! I glance up at Sabretooth, and he's sporting new clothes, too. We're no longer covered in blood, but both of us are wearing a layer of dust. The thought of him changing me makes me feel sick.

He looks up from his steak and his eyes squint at me questioningly. "I have to use the bathroom," I tell him. He smirks, but I don't see what's so funny. He points behind me at a "RESTROOM" sign, and I finish off the soda before getting up.

But it isn't a big restroom with stalls. It's just a one-person bathroom that locks behind you. Dangit! I wanted to wait for the first woman to walk in and ask her for help. I go potty and wash my hands as fast as I can. Now what? Looking up, I spot a small window. I fly up with my TK, open it, and drop to the ground outside. I'm in the parking lot behind the truck stop. Peering around the dumpster, I spot three truckers laughing loudly beside a tan Mack truck, with their radio blaring country music. I run straight for them, and the oldest one, with a white beard and mustache, elbows his friend to shut up when he sees me.

"Help!" I yell. "Please, please help me! This madman kidnapped me! He killed my whole family! I think he's going to kill me! I—"

The fat one cuts me off. "Whoa, there. Slow down. We can help you, miss. Now start over. Who is this madman? What does he look like?"

"His name is Sabretooth," I gasp. "He's really, really tall. Like, REALLY tall. And he has long, blonde hair, and yellow eyes. He's inside." I point. "But he's a mutant. He can heal super-fast, and guns just slow him down."

"A mutie, huh?" The white-haired man rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Jim, you better call this one in. Davey, go get your boys. We're gonna need all the muscle we can get." The youngest runs off to the other side of the parking lot, where a group of four others are packing up for the road. The fat one jumps up into the Mack truck, slaps off the music, and starts speaking really fast into his radio. Meanwhile, the older man kneels down and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Don't you worry, little lady. We'll take care of things. You see, there's no law in this part of the desert, not really. We enforce the law around here, and this is not the first mutant we've had to deal with. Now I want you to sit in the back of this here truck. You stay still and quiet, and don't touch anything, until we come back, you got it?"

I nod, and he hoists me up into the cab of the truck. I duck down behind the passenger seat, and all the men walk into the truck stop, each one carrying a shotgun. It isn't long before the yelling starts. Next, a woman screams. Several guns are shooting all at once, and then a man flies out through one of the big side windows and lands on the asphalt. He's mangled and his insides are hanging out beside him. I hear more crashing and shooting and a lot more screaming. Then it goes quiet.

For a second, everything is still. But then a huge looming figure comes around the corner, and I almost shriek in fear. Sabretooth is stalking toward me, carrying my duffel bag and a big, blue ice cooler, covered in so much blood that he looks like a redhead. I duck to the ground, my chest heaving. There are a ton of big rigs in this lot. If I can just stay hidden while he looks in the first one, maybe I can drive off. Uncle Alex let me learn to drive from his memories a few months ago.

I peak up. I can't find Sabretooth anywhere. Super fast, I jump into the driver's seat. But then I learn that a semi truck is not the same as any other truck. There are two gear sticks and a ton of buttons and knobs in front of me that I don't have any idea how to work. Oh, no. I stretch my mind out and scan the truck stop, but there's not a living soul inside. No mind to learn from. Looking around again, I notice a motorcycle parked just twenty feet away. Could I reach it without being heard? I hesitate. But if I sit here, he'll find me eventually. Before I can change my mind, I open the driver door.

And find Sabretooth smirking at me. I scream despite myself. I try to turn and run, but he yanks me by the hair and throws me down in the other seat. I grasp for the passenger door, but he reaches right over my head, presses the lock down firmly, then bends the metal into the door frame so that it can never come up again.

"No!" I scream. "Please, don't—" But before I can finish, the radio is crackling.

"Come in, Big Jimbo. This is Hellraiser. Did you say you got a mutie at the old 84 that _killed_ someone? Roger?"

Sabretooth climbs into the driver's seat, slams his door closed, throws both the cooler and the duffle into the cab, and turns the radio off before I can even think of trying to respond. He turns in his seat toward me, his eyes gleaming with sick pleasure. Oh, I don't like those eyes.

"A word of advice, kid. The ol' 'I've gotta go to the bathroom' trick has been used so many times, that most kidnappers will just let you wet yourself these days. Next time you'll wanna be more creative." He reaches into his coat and pulls out a cigar. Lighting it, he continues, "And I don't mind you tryin' to escape, I really don't. But you should know that every single time you do, I'm gonna kill every fuckin' person that you come into contact with along the way." He leans closer so that our faces are inches apart. My back digs into the door behind me. "Frankly, this's all a game to me. And killin's my favorite part of the game. But you've got enough blood on your hands as it is. Your entire family is dead because of you. You just added thirty-two more lives to your toll. You really wanna keep going?"

I shake my head, and he chuckles. "Good. You're a fast learner." He starts the ignition and we drive out onto the highway.


	4. A Sinister Plot

"You're certain he'll take the bait?"

"What the hell did I just say, Trask?"

"Look, this absolutely cannot go wrong. And let's be honest, your track record isn't exactly spotless when it comes to Wolverine." I growl, but he keeps yappin'. "Well, it isn't. If this doesn't go perfect, it's my ass on the line with the higher-up's, okay?"

"I know the man better'n anybody on this planet. I can lure him into any trap, and trust me, this is one he'll walk into willingly."

"Yes, but—"

"Shut up, Trask!" Finally, there's silence on the other end of the line. "Look, he thinks I'm taking his goddaughter to The Mesa. The name's Rachel. He'd die for that kid if he could. When he gets there and asks where the hell I am, you just tell him that I'm off pissin' in the woods or somethin', and that you've got Rachel in a cell. He'll do whatever you want 'til he realizes the girl ain't there."

After a short pause, Trask says, "Alright, Creed. Well done. The money will be wired to your account momentarily. Would you like me to hold while you check your balance?"

"I got better things to do with my time. Besides, you're too smart to try shortin' a man like me, ain't you?"

"No, Creed, we're not in the business of pissing off our contractors." He chuckles nervous-like. "We'll be calling you again before too l—" I hang up before the conversation turns cheesy, and fall back on the bed. Shit. Should'nt'a done that.

My body still ain't completely recovered from bleeding out last week, and for a moment, I'm tempted to just let myself fall asleep. The mattress conforms around my achin' back. The sheets are softer'n a teenager's breast. And with that thought, my jeans get real tight. Dammit, I planned to have tasted a woman by now! But draggin' a child half-way around the country definitely has its draw-backs. Guess I know now why I never take hostages. God, if I could only jack off...My head aches. I've had a killer migraine for days, and it's not gonna back off now.

I pull my ass up, brush my teeth (tryin' to wash out the thirst for blood), shower, dress, and head downstairs to the kitchen. I empty and wash out the blue ice cooler. Then dump it out on the back patio upside down so it can drain and dry. Thinkin' the girl's probably parched, I grab one of the remaining four water bottles on my way to the interrogation room. From some corner of my mind, I remember that I've only got meat in the freezer and beers in the frig. I'll have to make a grocery trip soon. Fuck. I hate goin' into town.

The moment I unlock and open the door, I'm met with a hurricane-force wind. There's no sound, but it's like being run over by a train. My body slams into the drywall behind me. Two thin legs jump over my shoulder, run down the hallway, and round the corner.

The little fucker's a telekinetic? Sure, Jean's got TK and it ain't like I'm surprised she inherited her mom's powers, but she's just a kid. The X Gene don't kick in 'til you hit puberty. Suddenly, the migraine that's been diggin' at the back of my skull all week makes far too much sense. She's been pokin' 'round in my head. **Nothing** pisses me off more than a telepath stickin' their nose where it _don't fucking belong_! I roar in fury and instincts take over.

Before I even realize that I'm runnin', I've got her cornered. The little thing puts up a small fight, but she's scared outta her wits and the attempt is pathetic. I backhand her as hard as I possibly can. I vice-grip her throat. I drag her, gasping and kicking, into the nearest bathroom. I throw her bodily into the tub. I turn on the cold water and spray her in the face. She squirms and tries to sit up. I shove her back down hard. I put my fingers 'round her neck again, pinning her against the edge of the tub, with her head far back, and put the showerhead just inches from her face. She twists and turns her neck, tryin' to escape the waterfall. But the waves keep comin' and eventually I can hear her coughing. That's when I throw the showerhead aside and pull her up to my face.

"YOU'RE FUCKING PSYCHIC?!" I shout into her face.

She chokes and sputters. "N-no!"

I spray her in the face again. I pull the water away so that she can hear me, scream "DON'T LIE TO ME!" and replace the showerhead. I wait 'til she chokes again before I pull her back up by the hair. Her gag reflex kicks in, and she starts coughing up water on my chest. As I watch her retch, my face burns with anger, my pulse bangs through my veins, and my arms and legs are shakin'. I wait until the heaving stops.

"Okay!" she yells in the middle of a gasp. "Okay, I'm psychic. I-I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"You're sorry!" I laugh harshly. "No, bitch. You ain't sorry yet. But you will be." With her hair still clenched in my fist, I slam her head into the bottom of the tub. She cries out in pain. I lift and slam her skull down again. She sobs. I pummel her against the ceramic one last time, and hear somethin' crack. Her limbs go limp. I close the drain so that the showerhead begins slowly filling the tub. When the water reaches her nose, I leave the bathroom, still fumin'.

Back in the kitchen, I start pacin'. Then, I place my hands on the counter and roar 'til my ears ring. I drop my head between my shoulder blades and breathe deep, tryin' to calm down. My mind races. What has she seen? My mind is filled with the image of a club coming at my face. I beat the picture away. Not now. What does she know? His terrible eyes glare at me through the fog of memory. Stop it! I **hate** telepaths! I hate them! I HATE THEM!

I breathe again, and soon my vision clears so that my boots come into sharp focus. Then I remember what I just did. Shit. She's no good to me dead.

I race back into the bathroom, slap the faucet off, and pick the girl up in my arms. She's out cold and her entire body's still limp and heavy. I drop her on the tile floor and start CPR. Amazingly, I only have to force breath down her esophagus one time. Her lungs inhale, her back arches, and she coughs up great heapin' pools of water. Instinctively, her body curls up into the fetal position, and she slumps against my shoulder. She gasps heavily for a moment. I whisper into her ear.

"You stay the fuck out of my head.," I tell her as evenly as I can manage. "If I so much as feel a tickle on the back of my neck again, I _will_ kill you. Do I make myself clear?"

Once I've got her locked back in the room, I go back to pacin' in the kitchen. I did _not_ plan on her being psychic. That changes everything. Telepaths are far more dangerous than any other mutant. And it's almost no use tryin' to keep them prisoner. Where any other mutant can be overpowered, a strong telepath can make you _think_ you're overpowering them, when they're really walkin' out the front door. By the time you realize what's happened, they're long gone and you've lost their scent.

But I've been dragging her 'round in a big rig for a little over a week. If she could read my mind and hit me with TK, why did she wait 'til we were thousands of miles from home? I remember her blastin' me. It was a huge wall of TK, no doubt about that, but it didn't even knock me out for a moment. If she'd focused all that power into a smaller, more compact bolt, she could've dealt a fatal blow. (Well, fatal to most folks, anyway.)

So she's plenty powerful, but she doesn't have a clue how to use it. And she probably don't realize near how much power she has. Clearly, she's never been trained in combat. Why would she'a been? She's just a kid, I remind myself. Well, that does give me the advantage. Like everything else, controlling a prisoner's all mental. I should know; I've lost decades of my life in cages.

So what's the trick? You gotta break their spirit. You starve them. You deprave them of sleep. After a while, they start to lose their grip on reality. Then, you make them submit to you physically every single day. After walkin' through the routine a hundred times, they start to submit to you mentally as well. Next, you use positive reinforcement with the smallest things. If they want food, they have to submit. If they want their hands free, they have to submit. If they want a bathroom, they have to submit. Eventually, they feel gratitude toward you for even the tiniest bit of mercy. That's when the line between oppressor and savior gets real thin. Once you've got 'em eating out of your hand, they'll be loyal to you as a Labrador. Everyone knows that the younger your captive, the faster this transformation takes place.

Well, well, well. This really does change everything. There's no doubt Wolverine'll break free of Trask's ploy. I had planned to use this girl as bait for my own trap once I got word he was back at the X-Mansion. But what if I could turn her instead? What if he comes to rescue her, and when he reaches out his hand to take her home, she turns away and runs into my arms? I can just imagine his face.

Back at the interrogation room now, I open the door slowly and a long string of light falls on her. She's curled into the far corner of the room, her legs pulled tight against her chest, and a puddle of water's growin' under the drenched jeans. Long red curls cover her face, and she almost looks like some kind of wild animal. This is gonna be fun.


	5. Happy Birthday

A Year After Capture

Rachel's Age: 9 Years Old

I don't know the girl in the mirror anymore. She's skinny, but not in a good way. She's so skinny that she looks sick, like the way that Grandma Grey looked before she died. Her eyes are red and puffy, and the left one has a dark purple lump underneath. There's a fat scar at the very top of her forehead that runs into her hair. She looks mean.

I turn way from her stare and splash water on my face. Today is my ninth birthday. But I don't get a party or presents. Today is a floor day, and my mind wanders around while I'm sweeping.

I've been in this house for a year and a half now, and I've learned so much. When you live with Victor Creed, there are lots of rules, and he never sits you down and explains them to you, like my Daddy used to. You learn his rules when you break them, and then he breaks you. The first rule I learned was not to ever try to escape. I tried twice—and he killed forty-seven people because of me. Sometimes when I'm trying to fall asleep at night, I see the little boy who looked right at me just before Mr. Creed snapped his neck. I never tried to get away again after that.

The next rule is that I don't use my powers. That one I only tried one time. Mr. Creed was so mad that he cracked my skull and the downstairs bathtub. Sometimes I make-believe about killing him with my telekinesis, but I know I'm not strong enough to actually do it. But I never pretend about using telepathy. The whole week that he drove me to this house, I tried to get inside that monster's mind, to try and control him. It was ugly and gross and scary and evil. I don't ever want to go back to that dark place.

But there are all sorts of smaller rules, too. The house has to be spotless all the time. I cook for Mr. Creed, and when he comes home, he wants a steak on a plate as soon as he walks in the door. I have the run of this place, but I must never step foot in the garage. I don't know why. All the electronics are strictly off-limits. I don't ever argue with Mr. Creed. If he gives a command, I follow it right away and don't ask any questions. Or else.

I've learned a lot more than just the rules, too. He's taught me a lot about the human body. Did you know that it doesn't take a big punch to knock someone out? It just takes aim. I figured out that the human jaw is like an on-off switch. And the temple is almost as weak. If someone is hitting you and you don't want to go to sleep, you keep your chin tucked in tight, so that your jaw line is out of sight and your temples are down away from fists.

My stomach growls. The refrigerator is almost empty, and I don't know how long Mr. Creed is going to be gone this time. I wish he'd tell me when he was coming back, but he never gives me any warning. Yesterday, I woke up and he was just gone. Some day, I'll wake up and he'll be back. I've got plenty of food for another week, but if this job takes a month like the last one, I don't know if I'll make it. Well, I just ate yesterday so for now, I'll work on an empty stomach. Again.

All of a sudden, my mind freezes and I feel my insides get cold. He's almost home.

Fast as I can, I throw a steak in the microwave to defrost, put the cleaning supplies away, and turn on the stove. The cooking is fast. Mr. Creed likes his steak raw, _really_ raw, so it only takes a second to char each side of the meat. I switch the stove off, throw the steak on a plate at the dining room table, and wash dishes.

His car's pulling into the garage. The closer he gets, the more I feel like someone is filling me up with rage, the way you put gas in a car. I don't use my powers anymore, but I still feel his emotions all the time. Most people don't know that a psychic doesn't always have to read your mind. Anyone can throw their feelings and their thoughts out into the air around them when they're really upset or really happy; my Mommy called it "broadcasting". Mr. Creed is broadcasting waves of anger everywhere. This is going to be a bad, bad day, I can tell.

* * *

The beer was good, the steak was perfect, and the shower was refreshin'. Still, I can barely feel my legs, I'm so pissed. Damn, I hate Sinister. The man is like a bad dream I just can't wake up from.

I knew somethin' was up the second I took the job, but I ain't one to worry about consequences. So I flew to Amsterdam tellin' myself, "You jus' mind your own business." And turns out the whole thing was a set-up. Sinister's goons tried to capture me for 'bout the dozenth time, and as usual, they failed and they died. It's not like I was really worried 'bout bein' captured. I just hate the thought a' that jackass still trackin' my every move. Like I'm the prey. Mother fucker does not know who he's dealin' with.

Spent, I plop down in my desk chair and click on the computer monitor. There's a message sittin' right on top of the desktop. It's short and sweet: "Call me. –Kev"

Hmm. Interesting. So I hit the speaker on my desk phone and then the number 7. He picks up right away.

"Hey, Vic," he answers. He loves to call me "Vic", like we're buddies or somethin'. I prefer to stick to call-signs, but I put up with it, 'cause the punk's damn useful.

"What do you got for me, Morph?"

"So, this is all hypothetical, okay? But, look, you get two Level 1 or Level 2 mutants together and make a baby, that child's gonna be a Level 3, right?"

"You gonna give me a genetics lesson, Morph?"

"Hang in with me, okay?" he says. "We have actual documented cases of those Level 3 babies. In the field, we call it 'The Escalating Mutation Effect'. Now, the consensus is that this same process should continue as you get into the higher levels as well. So, you get two Level 3 mutants to mate, their offspring should be a Level 4 or 5. And there have been a few case studies done that support the hypothesis, though the number's too low to account for any conclusive stats."

"Sure, sure. So what does that mean for this girl?"

"That's where things get _really_ fun," he continues. "There has never before been a case of two Level 5 mutants, like Cyclops and Phoenix, mating. I mean, how often do you even see a Level 5? What're the chances of two of them falling in love, right?" He sounds like he jus' might cum with me on the line. "But, so far as any of us can tell, they should produce a child that's even more powerful than the two of them combined. You know, a super-kid, or a super-super-kid, rather. I mean, that little brat should be on a whole new level. If lots of Level 5's start reproducing, we just might have to invent a Level 6 for the next generation."

"What about the manifestation age?" I ask.

Morph is silent for a moment. That's not like him. "What about it?"

"Well, you know, are all these second-generation mutants still getting their powers at puberty? Or have any of 'em started manifesting younger?"

Morph sounds thoughtful. "It's possible. The first generations of mutants, like Xavier and Magneto, seemed to develop their powers in late adolescence and early adulthood. It's only been in the past three or four decades that puberty has been the predominant age of manifestation. So, yeah, it would make sense if the onset of powers starts getting earlier as time passes."

"Alright," I tell him. "How much do I owe you for this?"

"Oh, no fee, Vic," he says with a laugh. "All research is free. It's what keeps my clients close to my chest."

"Ah, you sentimental bastard."

"That's me! Hey, Vic, I gotta ask."

"Yeah, what is it?" I can already tell by his tone I'm not gonna like this.

"Why are you asking all this information about the girl? I mean, her whole family was massacred over a year ago. She's been assumed dead ever since, and hasn't turned up yet."

I have my cover-story ready. "Why the hell do you think I'm asking?" I say. "She's a target."

"Who's the client?"

"You know I'm not gonna tell you that."

"Okay, okay," he says, back-peddlin'. "But, look, if you're already gonna hit the girl, you think you could get me a blood sample?"

Well that's a red flag if I ever heard one. "No."

"Hey, I'd be willing to pay, man. And not just a buddy discount, either." What a laugh. The man has never had a real buddy or given a true discount. "I'll give up a pretty penny for it," he tells me.

"The answer's 'no', Morph. Now drop it 'fore I get ill-tempered."

"Alright," he sighs. "But I'll give you one last tidbit of information, friend. Today's her birthday. Studies have shown that even the coolest cats go off their game on special occasions. With her supposed power level an' all, you really want the upper-hand over this girl? You should hit her today."

"Her birthday, huh? How old is she, exactly?"

"Nine," he says.

"Huh. She's awful small for nine," I think out loud. "I would'a guessed six. _Maybe_ seven."

"You've already seen her in person?"

Shit. "Gotta go, Morph." I hang up before he can ask any more questions, or I can give any more stupid answers.

* * *

My door opens, and by the time I look over my shoulder, he's already got ahold of my shirt collar. He drags me down the stairs but doesn't shout or bang me against the rail. In the living room, he sets me on the couch—almost gentle. Then he drops the remote to the TV next to my leg. I look at it confused, not sure what to do. I look up at him, and he's looking right back at me with something I've never seen in his eyes. What is that? Sadness? No. But it's not anger, either. What is that look?

"Happy birthday, kid," he tells me.

Then, without saying anything else, he walks out of the room.


	6. The Glow

Three Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 11 Years Old

Those eyes. His deep, sapphire eyes are staring at me, wide, piercing through me. My godfather is just ten paces away, and he's holding his hand out to me. He's finally come to take me away. He's going to save me. From this house. From this life. From HIM.

So why can't I reach back?

I'm standing here, dumb-founded, wanting nothing more than to grab his hand and fly far, far away. But I can't even raise my arm. I'm screaming inside, but I can't make a single sound. He's holding his hand out to me. But I'm trapped inside my own body, silent and frozen and numb.

When I wake up, I'm covered in sweat. Why do I keep having this nightmare? I gave up on waiting for Logan to come to my rescue a long, long time ago. I know my godfather. He doesn't sit back and try to gather information and form a big, complex plan and wait for his back-up to show up. He follows his nose to the first minion. He gets information from them any way that he needs to. Then he goes to the next person and beats information out of them. He runs from one bread crumb to another until he reaches his destination. He kicks down the door, beats the crap out of the bad guy, and carries the damsel in distress off into the sunset. It's been three years. If Logan was coming, he'd have been here by now. No, he obviously thinks I'm dead. So why can't I get this picture out of my dreams?

Rubbing my forehead, I sit up and cross my arms over my knees. There's a soft gray light spilling onto the blanket from my one small window, so it must already be dawn. Damn, I never seem to get a full night's sleep anymore. Part of me wonders why I even care. Sleep just separates one bad day from another. It doesn't really bring refreshment any more. It hasn't in a long time.

I stand and pull on one of Creed's old tank tops. Yet when I step into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I spot myself in the mirror and groan. Two small pink nipples show through the white cotton. Boobs. I'm only eleven years old, and I'm already growing boobs. I rip the shirt off and throw on a black t-shirt that drowns my entire figure. Much better.

The second I open my door, I feel like I've walked right into a brick wall. Throughout the house, the air is stifling thick, thanks to him. Creed came home from a mission five days ago, broadcasting a rage unlike anything I've ever felt before. Even in his worst moods, the house would be a bit uncomfortable at first, but after a day or two, he'd calm down and everything would go back to normal. This is something different.

I've had to build a psychic barrier in my room, just to sleep. He'd freak if he ever found out, but I've been slowly exploring my powers in the past several months. And between my experimentation and his consistent broadcasting, I've come to learn a lot about the monster named Victor Creed.

The man is his own worst enemy. He hates himself just as much as everyone else in this world. He is angry all of the time. He was abused as a child, and he feels that this makes him weak. It's this "weakness" that drives his hatred for psychics; he's panicked at the mere thought that a telepath might some day discover his shame. His greatest fear is vulnerability. He has loved two women in his lifetime, and he lost them both because he would not open up to them. He's a slave to lust—both for flesh and for blood. His self-loathing has driven him to the brink of insanity more than once, and he has actually tried, unsuccessfully, to kill himself. And he doesn't admit to any this, even to himself. On the whole, it's really very sad.

Don't get me wrong, I still hate the bastard. He brutally murdered my parents. He killed my entire family. He has beaten me more times than I can count. Still, I can't help but notice that he has never touched me, which is surprising considering his constant craving for sex. And lately, he threatens violence far more often than he actually lashes out. We're not friends, not by a long shot. But I meet his demands without question, and most days, I go unpunished for it.

The longer I stand in the upstairs landing, the more his agony presses on me. It almost makes me pass out. I don't know how much longer I can go on living like this. It's like spending every waking hour of every living day in a sauna. I'm light-headed and slightly nauseous. I wish there were some way to just shut it all off. Suddenly, something occurs to me. No! I try to shove the thought out of my head as fast as it came in, but it's no use. I never want to step foot inside that dark place again. Still, some part of me knows this is the only solution.

I stop in front of his bedroom door. I take in a long, deep breath. And knock.

* * *

Goddamn, I have never been this angry. And I could write the book on angry. I have a child, a son. I know Raven and I've never been sweethearts, but, shit, we _were_ in love once. Even two sick fucks like us can't deny that one. How could she jus' run off and have the kid and dump it and never even mention it to me?

Is this the real reason we ended? Did she think I wouldn't let her keep it? Well, come to think of it, I wouldn't of. And let's face it, despite her big tough act, Raven Darkholme don't have the stomach for abortion. So far, I know of two kids she's had, an' there may be even more I ain't heard 'bout yet.

Graydon Creed is 38 years old. What were Mystique and Sabretooth 39 years ago? Was that the time that we were lovers, livin' under the same roof, drivin' each other nuts during the day and fuckin' like animals at night? Or was that just one of our classic one-night-make-up's? I'm not sure. It's all a blur.

And why the hell do I even care if I've got a son? Is it about the kid? Is it about Raven? Or is it about me? Fuck, I don't even want to get into all that mess. I wish I could jus' shut my mind down for a while. Like when I almost killed myself. I was out for a few days, and when I woke up, I didn't hardly give a shit about anything.

Jus' when I'm onto something, I smell the girl. She's right outside my room, and there's a tiny little rap on plywood. Did she jus' knock on my door? What are we, fuckin' roommates? Then I really get her scent. She's more uncomfortable'n fresh meat at the county jail, and every pore of her skin's sweatin'. I wait, not sure what to say or do. Then she knocks again, more forcefully. Alright, kid, if it's that important to ya…

"What?" I bark.

She hesitates, then opens the door slowly. "Uh, Mr. Creed?" she starts real timid-like. "I don't know how to go about this. You're probably gonna kick my ass just for suggesting it."

"Least ya know what yer in for," I say. But in my head I'm wonderin' when she started sayin' "ass". I mean, she's what? Twelve years old? In the time that I'm thinkin' 'bout her word choice, she's crossed the room and sittin' on the edge of my bed. What the hell is this?

"Um…" she trails off, and her hands are fidgetin' back and forth on the hem of my old t-shirt. "Look, I know you're miserable, and quite frankly, I'm miserable, so I just thought that I'd try to help."

Now I know what she's up to. I cut her off, rolling my eyes. "I don't have time for this, kid. Number one, you're not gonna get away by seducin' me. Number two, I ain't even into little girls. Number three, if I wanted ya, I'd have ya any time 'a the day or night. Got it?"

Her cheeks flush and she looks down at her still fiddlin' fingers. " Oh, no, that's not what I meant at all…"

"Then spit it out. I ain't in any kinda mood for games today."

"I just—" She stops, sucks in her breath in a huff, and starts over. "Alright, don't flip out, okay? I can feel how you feel right now. You're madder than you've been the whole time I've known you, maybe even madder than you've ever been in your life."

Normally, this is the part where I go insane an' tear her apart. But not today. Maybe 'cause I'm already so pissed, I don't feel any surge of fury. Instead, it's like I go cold inside. I spring up, grab her, throw her down on the mattress, and dig my knee into her chest. "You been sneakin' 'round my head?" I ask her,

"No!" she shouts. "Please, just once, listen to me. I didn't go into your mind. You've been broadcasting your thoughts all around you. I can't help but pick them up. And this time, it's worse than ever."

"'Broadcasting'?"

"Yes. It's stifling. I can barely get through the day." Her chest pushes against my knee weakly. "Please, you're crushing me."

I lean down to her face, adding more weight on her torso. "I'll crush you if I want to."

"I know, I know," she coughs. "But, please, I just want to help."

I shove off her sternum and fall back on the bed beside her. "You think you can help me?" I chuckle. "Nobody can help me."

"Can I at least try? If it doesn't work, I'll leave you alone and get on with my chores. You're still no worse off than you were before I came in." There's a short silence. "But I'd have to use my powers…"

Ah, ha. I wondered when she'd try to escape again. I don't even care. Let her go. My little plan to spite Wolverine don't seem worth the effort all of a sudden. I turn my head to face her. I never noticed before, but the greens of her eyes have lots of tiny gold flakes in them. Her scent is still nervous, but now there's a twinge of regret in there, too. She's probably calculatin' her chances of success. _Do me a favor and jus' off me while you're in there,_ I think sarcastically. Her pupils dilate and I figure she must've heard that. Six days ago, I'd be really upset 'bout it. Now I just turn back and stare at the ceiling.

The second she's inside me, I feel her. It's kinda like when somebody comes up from behind you. Ya can't see their face, but you can feel their eyes borin' into the back of your neck. She goes through the hallways of my mind, slow at first, like she's just mappin' out the place for good measure. For a second, I worry that she's gonna dig into memories that ain't none of her business. But jus' as fast as the thought came up, it gets pushed right back down, and I'm petty sure it's her doin'.

Now she retraces her steps through my head. I feel the raw anger, like I just picked it up to examine it, you know, like at a museum. Then, it fades away. Next I look at the disappointment in my relationship with Raven. That also washes out into darkness. She repeats the process with a series of what-if's. Huh. Didn't even know those were there. Several rounds later, I'm emptied of all my chains. I feel strangely light, but I'm not sure if I like it.

But just when I think the girl's ready to leave my mind, she goes diggin' deeper. The hair on the back of my neck pricks up, but I find I can't do anything to stop her from goin' wherever she pleases, now that I've let her into this place. She pulls somethin' off an old, dusty shelf of my memories. It's almost like a drug high. But not. It's softer than that, and yet somehow bigger at the same time. I think it's joy. I scoff inside. Didn't know that was in there, either. But even as I'm laughin' it off, she makes it stretch and grow until it fills me up from head to toe. I feel pure and new—like I've been purged of some sort of poison.

My eyes blink four or five times before I realize they've got tears in them. Really? Tears? This kid better not think that I'm gonna turn into some kinda softie, just 'cause she tweaked my brain a lil'. I turn, ready to tell her to get the fuck out, but she's out cold. Bein' in my head must'a tuckered her out. Lookin' at her, there's a halo 'round her profile, red by her hair, black over the t-shirt, an' gold by her long legs. That's strange. I glance 'round the room and realize everything's gone a bit fuzzy. It's like some after-sex glow.

All of a sudden, I'm really tired. I let my head drop back onto my pillow, and just before I check out, she rolls in her sleep and cuddles up to my chest. Somehow, I don't care 'bout that, either.


	7. My Monster

Five Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 13 Years Old

Sure feels good to be home. I climb out of my favorite Hummer, gun pack over my shoulder. As the garage door closes behind me, I unload the rifles and handguns but leave the ammo in the bag, which gets tossed into a chest with more firepower. I walk into the house and breathe in deep. It even smells great. I've been gone way too long.

I ain't about to tell her, but I'm addicted to the girl. She clears my head 'bout once a week and leaves me droolin' like a newborn. I call it "the glow", and it's the best feelin' I've ever had. Much better'n any orgasm. These days, I don't walk 'round lit all the time. If I get ticked off, I choose whether or not I wanna break somethin'. And I ain't blacked out in anger in a couple of years. It's not like I'm a different man or anythin'; I just have a filter on my emotions for the first time in my long life. I've got a taste of what it means to be at peace, and I don't ever intend to give it up.

The kitchen's empty, and there's no dinner waitin' for me on the dining room table. She never forgets my meal. My stomach flips when I realize she must be hurt. Or gone. I growl at the thought of her takin' off. _Well, first things first. Check the house for intruders, kill anyone you find, and make sure she's okay_.

Headin' upstairs, I duck low so as not to be seen by anyone on the landing. No one's patrollin'. I check each room in order, but they're all empty. Her room is last. I kick down the door and then I stand in the doorway, stunned.

In a single second, I take her in. Rachel is standin' with her back to me, completely naked. She's all legs. Her left leg is bent and leanin' on the bed, and she's dryin' it with a towel, obviously fresh out of a shower. No wonder she didn't hear me comin'. Her ass is round and perfect. Long, bright red hair falls to her back, but I can see pale skin between the curls. One perky breast peeks at me beneath her left arm. My eyes lift to her head, and I see her face, maybe for the first time. I'm caught somewhere between huge, green, shinin' eyes and pink, soft lips.

Then the second is gone. She turns toward me lookin' shocked and whips the towel to her chest. I turn heel and head down the hallway. Even as I slam the door behind me, I hear light footsteps runnin' after me.

_She's fuckin' gorgeous_, I tell myself. _How did I never notice that before? I have to stop thinkin' like this. She's just a kid. _My fingers rip through my hair in frustration.

She comes barrelin' through my door, arms over her head as she's pullin' an oversized sweater over her rack. Before the wool falls over her navel, I see tiny red curls between the open zipper of her jeans. "I'm sorry," she starts in, breathless. God, even her voice is turnin' me on. "I was in the shower. I didn't hear the garage door, I swear. I'll go grab a steak right now, I promise."

"Just get the steak," I say, resistin' the urge to look at her.

"I just—"

I spin to face her and put my hand over her mouth. _Her perfect mouth. Stop it,_ a small voice screams in my head. _She's thirteen, for Christ's sake! _ "Get the goddamn steak," I whisper menacingly.

Her eyes drop, and I realize a second too late that I'm broadcastin' horny worse'n a teenager. I let her go, and she backs out of the room with a mischievous smirk. _Don't do that to me, kid._

I wait 'til I hear the microwave downstairs before I start rippin' off my clothes. I've got a ragin' hard-on. I need a shower and some fast relief.

* * *

Brushing my hair, I can't help but giggle to myself. Creed really surprised me today. When he kicked down my door, (_thanks so much, big guy_) I thought the emotion I was getting from him was anger. But then when I was in his room, closer to him, it was clearly arousal. Even more shocking, rather than tearing off my clothes, he pushed me away. He's been avoiding me all day.

Back when I first came here, I'd have been mortified if I thought he wanted me. You didn't have to know the word "rape" to get what Sabretooth was famous for. Back at the X-Mansion, anytime that name came up, the kids of his dead victims would go instantaneously hard, and no one needed to say that the topic was off-limits. When I saw the man for myself, and then went inside his mind, I immediately understood why.

But Creed isn't like that around me. Maybe it's because I give him "the glow", or maybe it's because our relationship is more like that of tense roommates now than a captive and her captor, but I never feel unsafe around him anymore. I know he's still a monster. It's not like I can ignore the sexual tension in the air building and building, and then he leaves for only one day and when he comes back, suddenly he's laid-back and carefree and smelling of blood. This cycle repeats itself every couple of weeks. I'm fully aware of what he does out there in the real world. But it's different here inside the house.

As long as we're within these walls, Victor Creed is a different person. He's quiet, but just reserved, not plotting or stalking. His humor is still dark, but in a funny, sarcastic way. And yes, he's still very much a selfish person, but that seems to make the little things that he does for me even more special. I know that there isn't anyone else in the world that he'll buy chocolate ice cream for. And I'm the only psi he'll ever willingly let into his mind. There's a part of me that doesn't even care about who he is out there. As long as he continues treating me like a friend, like someone he shares an inside joke with, I'll pretend I don't know how he makes the money that pays for the house I live in and the food I eat.

Besides, everyone has their faults. _Maybe he is a monster, but he's my monster_. And with that last thought, I climb into bed.

* * *

It's dark. _What time is it? Late. Where am I?_ I look up and recognize the old popcorn ceiling of my own room. _Why am I awake? _That's when I feel it. Something is between my legs. Something very wet. Looking down, I see that my blanket has been thrown aside and my body is exposed, completely naked. Creed's long hair is over my crotch, moving slowly back and forth.

That's when I really feel it. It's unlike anything I've ever known. His tongue is licking my clit skillfully and my sex is totally soaking in pleasure. _Oh, my god, that feels good!_ I throw my head back hard.

Suddenly, I awake with a gasp. I shoot up in bed, instinctively pulling my covers around myself. My eyes dart all over the corners of the room, but I'm completely alone. I fall back with a small laugh. I'm breathless and sweating and my underwear is damp. A tingling sensation I've never felt before is growing between my thighs and I rub my knees together, trying to mitigate it. It has the opposite effect.

Groaning, I pull my pillow over my face. _This is gonna be a long night._


	8. Never Again

Five Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 13 Years Old

I never realized before how beautiful his eyes are. His black pupils reflect the overhead light so that they look like two gold orbs. But there's no life there. I keep staring into those eyes, trying to will him back to life, but he doesn't move. Running footsteps are coming closer and closer. Somehow, I'm not sure why, a part of me knows that I need to be fleeing. I have no clue who sent the oncoming army, or what kind of army it is, or how they are armed, or _if_ they are armed. But I know that they will harm me. I should turn and run. But instead, I just stare into those beautiful eyes.

_He's not dead,_ I tell myself. _He can't be dead. He doesn't die_. The stampede gets closer. Every second I stand frozen here, I'm losing more and more time. But I can't seem to make myself run. I hear the door being kicked down, and just as I turn my head, gunfire showers across the room at me. Two bullets head straight for my forehead.

My eyes pop open and the bullets are gone. The room is black. My head rests on his chest, which is rising and falling as he breathes in, slow and deep. _Nothing like the glow to make a man rest peacefully._ Closing my eyes again, I listen to the drumming of his heart, and think about the dream. I keep having the same nightmare. Creed and I are fleeing someone—a whole lot of someone's, actually—and then he jumps in front of me and gets shot. Then I sit there like an idiot and get killed myself.

But it's more than just a dream. I'm not sure how I know it, but I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Victor is going to be killed, and the nightmare keeps coming more and more frequently. Somehow, I know it'll happen soon. He just told me that he had a mission coming up next week. I wonder briefly if it's a trap. I want to be there when it happens. I'm convinced I'm the only one who can protect him. I've been developing my powers and it turns out that I'm a really strong telekinetic, maybe even as strong as my mom. Part of me argues that after all, I was there in the dream, so I don't seem to be any kind of protection. _But when it happens in real-life, _I answer, a tone of stubbornness in my head, _I'll be prepared._

His breath sputters and he snores. That's my cue to leave. I lift myself, ready to head to my room, and the second I do, a fist clamps around my throat. This is always a risk when you fall asleep with Creed. His defensive reflexes are amazingly fast, and he always grabs the nearest living thing when he feels the slightest movement, even in his sleep. But he wakes the moment his arm flies at me, and when his eyes come into focus, he realizes what he's done. His hand drops immediately and he stretches his arms above his head.

"What time is it?"

I smile. "Not late. I just finished the glow so we couldn't have been asleep more than a couple minutes."

His brow furrows in the dark, and the gold reflections of his pupils flash to my face. "You havin' more nightmares, kid?"

For a second, I hesitate. Then throw caution to the wind. "Victor, we've got to talk." He groans before he sits up and turns on the lamp. Light bursts into the room instantly, before I can remind myself not to look at his body. His shoulders and traps cast big shadows across his collar bones and sternum. Next, my eyes fall on his pecs. They are huge and square. Beneath them, eight hard abs are laced on either side by so many rows of obliques that he looks like a professional wrestler on steroids. The thin sheet covers everything from the waistline down…and it's a damn good thing.

Forcing my eyes back up to his, I think strategy. We've had this argument a thousand times, and it never goes my way. Should I try to explain this sickening feeling of impending danger or should I just jump to the end? Victor's always been a bottom-line kind of guy_. Well, here goes._ "I want to work with you," I announce.

This time, his answer comes in less than one second. "No." I wait for more, but he gets up without another word. His boxers pass right in front of the lamp, showing shadows that make me blush.

"Where are you going?"

"What the fuck does it look like?" he yells over his shoulder on his way to the bathroom. I hear the distinct trickling of urine hitting toilet water for a minute or two. After a flush, he comes back into the room and immediately starts pulling on yesterday's jeans.

"Hey," I say, alarmed. "What are you doing?" He doesn't answer. Now he's tying the lace of his boots. "Wait!" I yell. "Just let me explain, okay?"

"NO!" he shouts. "I don't wanna hear it." His voice is calmer now. He takes in a breath. "It's not up for debate, kid. You are not workin' with me. Period." He throws on a gray tank top and reaches for his leather trench coat. Turning back to me, he adds, "And you're not gonna badger me 'bout this anymore."

"Look, it's not like I don't know what you do, okay? I'm okay with it. I want out of the house; it's driving me absolutely nuts. And I should learn a skill. You know, something besides cooking raw steaks." I smile at my joke, but he still won't even look at me. "You could train me; no one could train me better than you."

He chuckles. "Nice try, kid. I'm always on an ego-trip, so playin' to my vanity don't work on me." He heads for the door, but I dash in front of the threshold and stand in his way. "Move," he growls menacingly. It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck, and not in the way you'd expect.

"I-I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not sure why. "I take it back, okay? Just don't go." If his next job is only a week away, there's no way that he'll come back before then. I know Victor. If he leaves now, especially in this fury, he'll be gone for ages. _Please just stay._

I meant to think the words, but his eyes flicker and I realize that I must've said them telepathically. His face falls. "You don't want me 'round in a mood like this," he sighs, but then his voice gets hard all of a sudden. "Now get outta my way. Don't _make_ me move you. 'Cause you know I will."

"Please just tell me you'll come back." I can barely believe my ears. I've never begged him. Ever. Not even when he used to thrash me for hours.

He hangs his head. "Kid—"

"Rachel. You know my name's Rachel."

He looks up into my eyes. I pray like hell that they aren't tearing up. "Rachel," he whispers. He opens his mouth to say something else, but shuts it without finishing his thought. Then he shoves me out of the doorway. My knees hit the floor just as I hear the door slam behind him.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm breathin' deep and fast. The smell of blood reaches my nose 'fore I acknowledge anything else. I sit up and find myself in a hotel room, on the lone bed, covered in blood, next to a female corpse. It only takes a second for me to remember everythin'. Rachel workin' me over for the hundredth time. Me leavin' in a hurry. Wanderin' 'round the country for several days 'til time came for my assignment. Headin' down to Antarctica and into the Savage Land. Killin' Lupo 'cause apparently he didn't like Magneto's orders these days. Fightin' off the other Mutates. Travelin' all the way up South America into North America 'til I found my way back in the good ole U.S. of A. All this took about three weeks. Well, I ain't gone without the glow for three weeks in years. Needless to say, my thirst got the best of me again.

I look down at the mangled body. Searchin' the old memory bank, I realize there were eight other girls, mostly whores, and not a one of 'em could satisfy me. I just woke up, an' I'm already plannin' to grab another one. My fingers scrape over my scalp while I'm thinkin' 'bout Rachel.

That girl's turnin' out to be a real liability. Why the **hell** would she want to learn to kill people? _Or is it that she just wants to work with me?_ That one just seems like too much. It ain't a secret to anybody, least of all me, that I'm no picnic to hang out with. And yet she asked me to stay. She practically begged me. It nearly knocked me off my feet to hear her like that. She's always been real strong, even when she was jus' a pup, even when I was beatin' the shit outta her. Four years of me waitin' to hear that girl beg for her life, and when she finally breaks down, all she wants is for me to not run off. And I ran off.

_What do ya expect? That's what you do best, ain't it? _I grab the lamp on the hotel nightstand and chuck it. It shatters against the wall. _I've got to get back home_, I decide. _I don't know if she'll even be there, but I've got to at least find out. Rachel's got no one in the world but me, and that's my fault. 'Least I can do is stick by her. And I could _really_ use the glow right now._

_

* * *

_The alarm clock tells me it's three o'clock in the morning. I curl into the sheets, breathing in his scent. I keep telling myself I need to stop this. He's been gone for almost a month; he's not coming back. He's deserted me. That means I'm free. I should pack up and head for the X-Mansion. But I just keep cleaning the house during daylight, pretending that any second now he'll come home. And I keep falling asleep in his bed at night, pretending he's lying right next to me.

All of a sudden, my nostrils catch the thick scent of blood and pine, and my ears register a low growl. Hot breath blows on the back of my neck. When I whip around, I come face to face with Victor. We're so close that my nose almost touches his chin, and my heart starts racing. I tell myself I must just be dreaming.

But in the two second beat that I'm waiting for him to disappear, I realize there's something absolutely…feral…about him. I have never seen him like this. He's drenched in blood. His hair is matted with twigs. He stares into my eyes like he's never seen me before. He's broadcasting fury and disgust and above all hunger. He's all instinct and pure emotion. As I gaze into his black eyes, I see now that this is no fantasy. This is real; he's really here. He's really back. But something is wrong. The hunger is growing every second we look at each other. The glow. He came back for the glow.

I speak softly, afraid to stir anything up in him. "Victor?"

His breathing is heavy. "I'm not—" He trails off, but I hear his thoughts loud enough, and I finish the sentence for him.

"—good at apologies. Yeah, I know." There's a long silence. "Look, Victor, I don't need an apology, okay?" I put my hand on his chest. "Just don't ever leave me again."

When he speaks, his voice is like gravel. "Never."


	9. Under Siege

"So it seems that, because of every syndrome and disorder we've invented in the past twenty years, the Los Angeles Times stated that 63% of American families are now considered dysfunctional. My God! That means we're the majority. We're normal! It's the people who have the mommy, the daddy, the brother, the sister, the little white picket fence—those people are the freaks, man!"

The tv audience laughs their asses off, and I take another swig of my beer. Good ol' Titus. If I ever got a contract on that man's head, I'd take him out for a few beers 'fore I off'd him. Just as he's startin' in again, Rachel rolls in her sleep and throws her arm over my lap. She sighs and a few o' those smokin' hot red curls fall over her face.

We've become our own kind of dysfunctional family in the last year or so. She's like the little woman, cleanin' house, cookin' my steaks. She even went grocery shoppin' in town the other day while I was out an' got everythin' for a gourmet steak recipe with chimichurri sauce. When I got home, I was pissed that she'd left the house. That was one of my rules. Then I realized that she came back. I ate the steak and I told her I loved it. She knew better. Funny thing 'bout lying to psychics…

She's been breaking a lot of my old rules lately. But I'm findin' I don't really need them anymore. She isn't just my hostage anymore. I don't know quite what she is to me, but she sure ain't that. She's slept in my bed with me every night since I came home almost six months ago. And I'm not 'xactly sure how I feel 'bout that either.

I hear a footstep. A single footstep is all it takes to send my heart racing.

Fast as Quicksilver, I head to the bedroom door and sniff at the gap by the floor. Sure enough, I smell intruders—lots of 'em. I run to the bed and shake Rachel's leg and she wakes in a second. I put my finger to my lips to signal her not to make a sound. She doesn't need any further explanation. She jumps out of bed. Her breasts are way too easy to see through one of my white wife-beaters, and her black panties are like somethin' from a wet dream. While I'm getting' dressed, she pulls on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt quiet as a mouse.

I'm just 'bout ready to head out the door when he puts her hand into mine and laces her fingers between my own. I turn, expectin' to see her scared, but her face is set with a look of pure determination. _Of course. _We step out into the hallway together, and sure 'nough, at least twenty masked men are blocking the stairway, aimin' Uzis in our direction.

"Don't fire!" calls a voice, cold as steel. Sinister steps out from behind his henchmen and smiles at Rachel. "Hello, child. My, but you are as beautiful as your mother, aren't you?" I growl and his smirk widens. "Come, Sabretooth, be reasonable. I only want the girl. There's no reason we can't still be friends." I step in front of Rachel protectively. Sinister sighs. "Fine, then. Have it your way. Kill him, boys." He turns, walks through the black hooded crowd, and disappears again.

The first goon to rush me looses his larynx. Then four more men come boundin' forward, and I gut them all easily. The hallway is thin, so only a couple can come forward at a time, which means I can't be surrounded. I've got the upper-hand…you know, over and above the obvious. I'm surprised at Sinister. The man's so methodical. You'd expect him to have thought this through better. Then they all start openin' fire. And now the hallway attack makes sense.

I make sure that my body is directly in front of Rachel's, so that no bullets can slip between my limbs and hit her. I take seven shots in the torso and two in the thighs before I realize we're gonna lose the battle this way. I slip my hand behind my back, and our fingers interlock again. Then I start steppin' forward, takin' more bullets with ev'ry step. When I reach the throng, I slash at their throats and midsections, spillin' guts all over the floor, and keep walkin' forward. Amazingly, my mind stays clear the whole time. Blood lust never takes over.

We get through the first troop and run downstairs, but jus' as we turn for the garage door, another pack is comin' straight at us from that direction. I turn heel and push Rachel into the interrogation room. She and I wedge the long metal table between the door knob and the concrete floor, makin' an effective blockade, but they're poundin' and bangin' and the door keeps pushin' more and more against its frame. Pain sears through my whole body, and I slump to the floor. Rachel runs to my side.

"Victor!" Lookin' down, I see blood seepin' out of my body and onto the floor. I grip Rachel's shoulder and speak in her direction, but I can't see a damn thing. Seems like vision's always the first thing to go in these situations.

"Rachel, listen to me, an' listen good," I say. "You have to use your powers. You have to put a shield 'round your whole body. Then, you gotta get to the garage. There's all kinds of cars there. You drive outta here and you don't stop 'til— Don't stop 'til— Don't stop—" From somewhere very far away, I hear myself cough and sputter and then suck in air.

For some reason, all I can think of is that I've never tasted her lips.

* * *

I never realized before how beautiful his eyes are. They reflect the little light in the room, causing the pupils to glow gold inside his pitch black irises. But there's no life there. I keep staring into those eyes, trying to will him back to life, but he doesn't move. Running footsteps are coming closer and closer. I should turn and run. But instead, I just stare into those beautiful eyes.

_He's not dead,_ I tell myself. _He can't be dead. He doesn't die_. The stampede gets closer. Every second I stand frozen here, I'm losing more and more time. But I can't seem to make myself run. I hear the door being kicked down, and just as I turn my head, gunfire showers across the room at me. Two bullets head straight for my forehead. I squint my eyes shut as tight as I can, bracing for the worst.

But then nothing happens. Slowly, so slowly, I open my eyes. The two bullets sit in mid-air, hovering just before my face, not moving, simply sitting there like they're stuck in invisible jello or something. I look up to find that a gunman is staring with his mouth gaping open, his weapon still raised at me but no longer firing. Another henchman shoves past him and starts shooting at me. His bullets stop just short of my skull as well.

Concentrating, I push my shield just a bit wider and the seven bits of lead move backward about a foot. Now two more minions enter the room, and all four of them pull out their automatic guns. A shower of ammunition hangs in the air before me like a string of Christmas lights, and using my telekinesis, I turn it around to face my attackers. A sudden comprehension dawns on all their faces just before I push the darts forward at over a hundred miles per hour, and they all crumple to the floor. I shove the door closed before anyone else can push their way in and block the way with a solid wall of TK.

Turning back to Victor, I pick up his torso, my hands shaking uncontrollably. _How could this happen? I knew it was coming! I was supposed to be ready, dammit! _But the sudden excitement of being awakened in the middle of the night and the imposing presence of so many enemies and a hundred bullets flying and all the commotion have me completely off-guard. And now Victor is dead.

My head falls against his chest and I'm tempted to cry. _What would he think if he saw that?_ I fight off the urge. _Okay, pull yourself together, Rachel. What did he tell you to do? "Put up a shield, get to the garage, drive and don't stop 'til—" Well, drive and don't stop works, anyway._

Out of nowhere, Victor's chest heaves. He takes in a huge breath of air, turns away from my arms and coughs up blood all over the floor. I have to fight off the urge to cry again, this time from relief.

"Victor!" I yell. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and turns to me, his eyes slightly glazed.

"Fuckin' A, Rachel, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Huh?"

"What happened?" he asks, pulling himself to his feet. "How long's it been?"

"I dunno, maybe a few minutes? I used my TK, and I killed them." I pointed at the bodies near the door. "But there're a whole lot more outside. You don't look good."

He stands, very wobbly on his feet, and looks at his reflection in the one-way mirror with criticism. Picking at one of his more ghastly wounds, which is already healing, he says, "God, I'm one ugly mother-fucker after a gun fight. Always seem to take more bullets than anyone else in the room." He turns to me. "You think you can manage fitting a shield 'round both of us? I'm not sure if I can eat that much metal again without bleedin' out, and if you're gonna wait on me to make yer exit, that'll slow ya down a helluva lot."

I try to look confident. "I guess we're about to find out, aren't we?" He just grins.


	10. The Elephant In The Room

Six Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 14 Years Old

It's been a long time since I been a slave to blood lust. These days, I'm practically civil. But here I stand with a perfectly un-bleedin' man in front of me, and my hands start shakin' in anticipation of what I'm 'bout to do to him. I lick my lips. He sees it.

"Look," he starts in, strugglin' against the ropes. "I'm not gonna say anything, okay? I'm a lot of things, but I'm no snitch, so you can just forget it!"

I kneel down so we're eye-to-eye and fix him with my darkest glare. "Wouldn't you know, everyone says that? They all seem to think if they put up a strong front, it gives the interrogator second thoughts 'bout how far they're willin' to go for what they want. But guess what, Morph? I rape. And kill. And pillage and plunder. It's what I do. What I was born to do." I hold up the pliers for him to see. "There ain't a line I won't cross. And you, yer tied to a chair. I'm gonna do whatever I want to you and there's nothin' you can do about it. You know it. I know it. So let's cut the bullshit, shall we?"

His adam apple bobs in his throat and fear is written on every corner of his face. Well, at least he's past the fake poker face. Always the first step. "Now I'm guessin' this is your first time in a chair. This yer first time, Morph?" His head stays still but his eyes dart down at his predicament. "Let me lay out for you how this is gonna work. You and me are about to do a lil' dance that ends when you decide yer tired of dancin' and you wanna start signin'.

* * *

Rachel. He called me Rachel. It's funny just how much you can tell by a name.

At first, after he captured me, he didn't call me anything. He'd instruct me to sit in a chair by pointing at it, or tell me I did something wrong by smacking me on the back of the head. I always thought this was his way of telling me I wasn't worth noticing. Then, he started calling me "you". As in "You, fetch my steak" or "Get outta my way, you!" I was suddenly worth noticing, but in much the same way you notice an annoying cat. After a while, I became "Girl", which was softer than "you" but still not exactly personal. Then, he named me "pup". That was a term of endearment—or at least, the closest thing to it that Victor could muster. Shortly after I developed boobs he named me "Red". This was obviously a reference to my hair color but I also thought it was an acknowledgement of my budding sexuality, and the fact that I was a little more than some kid now.

But this was very different. He actually called me by my real name—not a nickname or a metaphor or an improper noun. He just acknowledged, consciously or subconsciously, who I actually am. What does that make us now? Equals? Teammates? Friends? Something more?

I look at the clock. We drove for days, with our house in our rear view mirror, and no matter how many times I asked him, he wouldn't tell me where we were going. Then we arrived at this abandoned warehouse. He killed the engine, told me to sit still and quiet, and disappeared inside without another word of explanation. And that was more than half an hour ago. Could he be in trouble? Well, after what we've been through in the past few days, what's the worst he would do to me?

Throwing caution to the wind, I step out of the car and into the building, quiet as a mouse, just as he taught me. Three-inch-thick steel doors close thickly but silently. The second I turn around, however, I regret my decision. Victor is crouched low, a huge machete in his hand and a devilish, sick grin on his face. There are several tools strewn around his feet, including a pair of pliers, a bone saw, and a needle. All of them are covered in blood. Slumped on the floor in front of him, a man lies mangled, with half of his face missing and his left leg amputated. All his fingernails are bleeding. He cries out to me for help but with his tongue cut out, he can only moan in my general direction. Victor punches him, knocking him unconscious, and runs up to me. He grabs my arm with a vice-like grip that sends searing pain from my elbow to my shoulder and shoves me outside.

"What part of 'still and quiet' don't ya get?" he yells.

"W-w-wha—" I studder, my breath taken away by the sight of the tortured man.

He throws me over his shoulder and dumps me inside the Hummer. When he speaks, his voice is an all-too-familiar low, threatening growl, "Don't. You. Move."

_Well, that was a strike out._

_

* * *

_Morph's one eye stares up at me all blank and lifeless. I wipe my hands but there ain't much I can do 'bout the blood all over my front. I feel like my old self again. The past forty minutes were gruesome and wicked. And I loved every second of it. I take a deep breath, tryin' to put on my best reformed-version-of-Victor-face and step outside.

As I expected, she's glarin' at me. I start the car, hopin' to at least get a mile or two down the road 'fore she jumps all over me. No such luck.

"What was the purpose of that?" she shouts. "Did you just feel the need to hear someone scream?"

I rub the ear closest to her, which is ringin'. "Well, if I did, I guess mission accomplished, huh?"

Her glare goes from hot to cold in a second. She plops down in her seat, buckles her seatbelt, and crosses her arms hard, starin' straight ahead.

I start what I'm guessin' is one helluva long drive. She must realize the guilt trip isn't gonna work on me, 'cause she switches tactics. She breathes in and lowers her voice. "Did you just want information? Because I could've tried reading his mind."

"Look, that's how I deal with shit. I'm sorry you had ta see it but I told you to stay in the damn car." She sighs and stares out the window. "Anyway," I continue, "don't weep for that bastard. He's the lowest form of scum. He sold you out for shillings."

Her face changes. "Me? What did he want with me?"

"Not him, Sinister. You know who Sinister is, don't you?"

She nods, still lookin' forward. "He's the one that was obsessed with my paren—" She breaks off, and an awkward silence fills up the car. Come to think of it, she's never mentioned her folks once since the day I off'd 'em. Somethin' very uncomfortable swirls in the pit of my stomach. "So what does Sinister want with me?

_To clone you. Experiment on you. Cause you intense physical and emotional pain. Brainwash you. Probably rape you, too._ "Yeah, I'm not touchin' that one with a ten-foot pole, Red. 'Sides, he's not gonna touch you. Not while I've got breath in my lungs."

* * *

The motel room is dark. It smells slightly like mold and other unpleasant things. Victor closes the door, throws his leather jacket on the bed, and goes straight to the bathroom. I hear shower water running, but he doesn't turn on the light. Sometimes he forgets that I don't see in the dark like he can. My hands search around the door until they find the light switch. Light floods the little room and I almost wish I hadn't turned it on.

Tattered, pale pink curtains frame the only window. The carpet is dark green and stained in multiple places. On the single bed lies a thin, bright orange blanket with a sickening paisley pattern. I immediately recognize the place from Victor's memories. In fact, he's been here many times before; the last time was when he'd left me. He killed a prostitute in this very room.

Victor comes out of the bathroom, wearing only his jeans and sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. Water drips from his hair onto his bare feet and he seems lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. Then he looks at me. He seems to notice my discomfort for the first time.

"Wanna wash up? Might calm yer nerves."

I shake my head. "I'm not the one covered in blood. I really just want to go to sleep." He smiles at my quip with a nod, then pulls back the comforter. I crawl into the bed and he tucks the sheets around me.

"I'm gettin' us some food," he says, picking up his shirt. "Be back in a few."

"Wait!" I call. He turns back to me with a look of concern. "Please don't go," I beg. "Not tonight. We can get food first thing in the morning, can't we? I—I just don't want to be alone tonight."

Thinking over my plea, he drops the shirt and turns off the light. He lies in the bed to my right. After a really long silence, I roll over to face him and watch his still profile. I'm in a place that gives me chills and revolts me to my very core, but somehow lying here in the dark with Victor, I feel strangely safe. Despite all his intensity and brooding, I know he'd do anything to protect me. I also know he killed my parents and I should hate him for it. But I don't. All I fell toward him is absolute gratitude for saving my life. Inching closer to him, I put my hand on his chest. A faint, almost unnoticeable smirk tweaks the corner of his lips and I decide to once again ignore my better judgment, hoping it goes much better than last time.

I kiss his cheek. It's a soft, sweet kind of kiss but certainly not a peck, with my mouth just slightly open. He turns to me with a frown. "You wanna explain to me what that's for?" he asks.

"I owe you my life. I figure I should start paying my debt." I kiss his lips this time, a fuller kiss, one with lots of passion and meaning behind it, and at first, he reciprocates. Then he places each of his hands on my arms and pushes me back a little.

"No, Rachel," is all he says.

"But," I stammer, "but I thought—"

"Whatever you thought, you were wrong." His tone is sharp. "Now go to sleep. Been a long day, and yer right; we both could do with some sleep."

I can't believe my ears. Victor, of all people, is refusing me? "I'm not a child anymore. I've made this decision with a clear head, and it's my choice to make."

"Rachel, girl, of all the people in the world you could give this too—"

"I know who you are, Victor. Like I said, I'm not a kid. I know all the horrible, gross, evil stuff about you—"

"Well, when you put it that way—" he grumbles.

"—and I know the good stuff about you, too. Stuff that I don't think you even know. Like how you'll take every kind of pain to protect me. Or the fact that you avoid any physical contact with me, even though you're completely attracted to me and you've gone without sex far longer than you've ever gone before in your life, because you don't trust yourself to not give into your inner desire to—"

"Yeah, I'll admit you make me hot and bothered. 'Course you do. But I'm not gonna be the one that takes this from you. Not your first time, not tonight, and not here."

As if to support his argument, bed creaking and moaning start sounding from the room next door. I groan. In my heart, I know he's right. "Fine," I concede. "Not tonight, not here, but I have decided that I want you to be my first time, and I'm not going to wait quietly on you forever. Think about that." I roll back over sulkily.

He lies in stunned silence for a few minutes. Then I hear him sit up, cross the room, throw some water on his face, pull on some clothes, and leave the room.

_Strike two._


	11. Free Fall

"You ready for a job?"

She stares at me but her eyes are blank. There's no tension in her face; no change in her scent; not even a hint of body language to tell me that she heard the words.

"What'd you say?" she asks, finally squinting her eyes just a little. _What was that? Distrust? No, guardedness. Maybe just disbelief._

"You said you're not just a kid anymore," I answer. "Well, there're affairs that need straighten'n out, and seein' as they're your affairs, I figure you got a right to straighten 'em out yourrself, now yer grown up an' all. You ready for a job?"

"Hell yes."

I drop on the bed, facin' her square. Make sure she knows I mean business. "Before we go tryin' to get ourselves killed, though, I need you to level with me."

Then she stiffens. "About what?"

"How strong are yer powers?"

She thinks a long time before sayin' anything. "Well, I don't exactly know. I was only a kid when I lived at the X-Mansion so I didn't get any proper genetics education or training or anything. And since I was so young, my memory of everyone else's powers is pretty poor. Watching you over the years hasn't been much help, because your mutation is all based on your physical being—you know, enhanced senses and healing and all that. Those are pretty much the exact opposite of my psychic abilities, so it's hard to measure myself next to you." Her gaze shifts off and she's lost in herself for a bit. "I think I'm very powerful…maybe one of the most powerful mutants that we know. From what I understand, you're like, crazy strong, right?"

I nod. "I'll never beat Rogue in a weight-lifting match or anythin', but I can pick a two ton car up over my head when needed."

"Well the weight that I can lift with my TK is somewhere between your max and Rogue's, then." She pauses, and her hands are fiddling nervous-like. "I think I can lift, like, six or seven cars."

"Shit, Red, why didn't you just waste all those goons back at the house?"

"I was scared." Her eyes grow cold on me all of a sudden. "But this time, I'll be prepared. Whatever we need to do, I'm down for it."

_How long have you been that strong? How do you know you can lift six cars? Have you been practicing behind my back? Will you really be as ready as you think when the time comes?_ I sigh and toss aside the ten thousand questions streaming through my head. "Well, that's pretty much what I was afraid of. The bottom line is this: yer **too** strong. Morph sold you out to Sinister. Now it's only a matter of time before Sinister goes blabbing to The Hellfire Club or tryin' to get the old Brotherhood members to hunt ya down, and then yer name's all over town. We need to kill you. And fast."

"Kill me? Hmm. How do we do that?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. "It's a one-stop-shop for getting the word out. If S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database says yer dead, everyone will hear it, and take it as truth."

* * *

Twenty minutes behind, alarms soundin' every goddamned place, and a full-scale lock-down on all exits. Fuck, this mission's goin' to hell. To make things worse, hacking's really not my thing. Rachel's pacin' by the door, guardin' the way if any S.H.I.E.L.D. agents come bustin' through, while I'm doin' my best to fix the records on my…hm…on her.

"Can't you speed this up at all?" she barks at me.

"Believe it or not, hackin' the most intelligence-based database of the highest-security military headquarters in the world ain't exactly child's play."

She grumbles to herself.

The virus I stole from Morph busted through the firewall easy 'nough, and then it was just a matter of installin' the re-write software that looks exactly like the original program to the hard drive. But actually findin' the damn file was the problem. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s system is DOS-based, very un-user-friendly, probably on purpose, and I've heard tryin' to sort through the code is a talent very few programmers can master. But I finally find the file and enter the fake date, time & location of her death. For good measure, I paste in my four-paragraph report by an Agent M. Lizer on finding the remains and re-investigating the Summers murders in the desert all those years ago, with no new results. If anyone ever looked up the report, it'd only take a few minutes of reading and a call to Agent Lizer to figure out that it was forged. But it's extremely unlikely that anyone will pick up Rachel's file again. She was six years old when she disappeared, she'd never had any reports of interest before the Summers murder case, which involved a lot of other, higher-profile mutants, whose files would be of far more interest than her own, should the case suddenly re-surface.

I yank the flash drive out of the CPU and turn back to Rachel. "Are you ready to go yet?"

She jerks her head toward the door. "We've got a dozen agents waiting outside for us. It's a narrow hallway. It'll be just like Sinister's goons all over again. Put I can put up a shield this time."

Then several things happen all at once. I hear a footstep behind me. The sound sends chills up my spine, makin' my ears prick and my nostrils flare. I breathe in deep and catch the scent. The attacker's a male, black, 'bout six feet tall, muscular build, sweatin' from the stress, with that mercury hatred rollin' off him in waves. _How the fuck did I not smell him coming? Too damned focused on a stupid computer, that's how._ I turn on my heel to face him. I'm mid-crouch by the time I get turned 'round but his gun's already raised and next second, I hear the unmistakable bang. Just as I feel the bite in my shoulder, a silent wind rushes past me toward him.

I fall, grabbin' my left arm and glance back at Rachel. She ain't hit. Relief washes over me. Then I see her face; she looks like she's seen a ghost or something. I look back at the agent. He lies face-down on the cold linoleum, a dark puddle of blood swellin' around his form. I get up and stagger over to her.

"You okay, kid?"

She snaps out of her reverie. "Fine. Stop looking at me like that!" Then softer, "Are you gonna be able to get out of here with that?" pointin' at my bullet wound.

"'Course, who do ya think yer talkin' to?" I fix her with a confident smirk. She doesn't respond; her eyes are still…I dunno…off. I clear my throat. "Well, if he came from over yonder, means there's an exit thata way. Come on."

We follow the agent's scent to an escape hatch, which opens to the wide open air. Even though I've done it a few times, it's still jarrin' to stand out there, on the edge of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s flying base, lookin' down at the clouds, and knowin' there's over a thousand feet between you and the ground. I'm not scared; I know from experience I can survive that drop. But my body pushes against the wall, my instincts on fire. Rachel, on the other hand, looks almost bored. I take her hand.

"The jet's on the other side of the base, over 800 feet away. Looks like we're just gonna have to jump. You got that shield ready?"

Through all the red hair whippin' 'round her face, I see her fix me with a hard stare and nod. I take her hand. She doesn't squeeze back. I step off the ledge, pullin' her with me.

I've always loved the feel of a free-fall. Most of the time, when I get to do it, I don't have a parachute with me, so the end of the fall means a helluva lot of hurtin' and, if I'm droppin' more than twenty or thirty feet, there's always a long-ass recovery after that. But god, the feel of the wind lashin' at my face, the roar of force on every side of my body, the bizarre up-ward push of turbulence against my stomach, it's one of the best high's in the world.

We plummet through the wet clouds, our clothes slightly damp. When we're 'about 200 feet off the ground, I turn to her. "Time for your shield!" I yell to her.

She turns her face to me but says nothing. I've never experienced a free-fall with a TK shield 'round me, so I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. But I do know our hair is still trashin' all over our faces and necks. I'm guessing if TK stops bullets and missiles, then it should stop wind, too.

"Rachel!" I scream. "The shield!" She turns back to look at the ground comin' up fast on us. "Rachel!"

I tighten my grip on her hand and pull her to me, using my body as a shield for hers. But I know the force of the fall alone is enough to collapse her lungs. She curls into my chest, nuzzling, like we're snugglin' in bed or somethin'. I hug her tight with my good arm and try shouting into her ear. "Come on, Rachel! I need you with me, Red! Come on, please!"

Now the valley floor's only fifty feet away. I brace for the impact, prayin' to I don't fucking know who to somehow save this girl's life.


	12. Release The Beast

Six Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 14 Years Old

"Time for your shield!" I yell to her.

She turns her face to me but says nothing. I've never experienced a free-fall with a TK shield 'round me, so I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. But I do know our hair is still thrashin' all over our faces and necks. I'm guessing if TK stops bullets and missiles, then it should stop wind, too.

"Rachel!" I scream. "The shield!" She turns back to look at the ground comin' up fast on us. "Rachel!"

I tighten my grip on her hand and pull her to me, using my body as a shield for hers. But I know the force of the fall alone is enough to collapse her lungs. She curls into my chest, nuzzling, like we're snugglin' in bed or somethin'. I hug her tight with my good arm and try shouting into her ear. "Come on, Rachel! I need you with me, Red! Come on, please!"

Now the valley floor's only fifty feet away. I brace for the impact, prayin' to I don't fucking know who to somehow save this girl's life.

Everythin' comes to a sudden stop. But there's no force behind the fall. I peel my eyes open. Rachel's still curled into my chest in the fetal position, and her back is hoverin' two inches off the ground. I lower my foot to the dirt. Then I unfold the girl. Her eyes are still empty. I take her by the hand, leadin' her to the Jeep that's gonna drive us far away from here, wondering, _What the fuck just happened?_ I'm really not sure I wanna know.

* * *

I killed a man. He fired a gun at Victor, I heard the impact on his skin, and I saw him drop the ground. I threw a TK bolt by instinct, plain and simple. If I'd have thought about it for two seconds, I'd have known that Victor was fine. This is the man who lives through a bullet to the brain at point-blank range, for God's sake. But I didn't think. I hit an innocent man with telekinesis, a military servant who was just doing his job, and now he's dead.

The Jeep's bouncing along miles of dunes and I watch its shadow stretch and shrink across the orange desert sand. This is where I met Victor Creed, six years ago. My, how times have changed.

I turn to watch him. He's wearing his black muscle shirt, which outlines all his best features. Looking down, I notice his cargo pants also outline some wonderful features. His long hair is dancing in the wind. He feels my stare and turns to give me one of those uncomfortable, sideways looks. _What the hell's goin' on in yer head, girl?_ I hear him broadcast.

I am not a little girl anymore. I am certainly not his captive anymore. I am all grown up, I've lived through hell, and I'm done asking for what I want. Victor Creed has given me nothing but trouble from the day he walked into my life and if my decision gives him a little trouble, well he'll just have to learn to deal with it.

I throw my left leg over his lap and slam on the brake pedal. His brow furrows and for a moment, he stomps the accelerator a little harder, but the transmission screams in protest. He backs off the gas. The Jeep screeches to a halt. I shove him with my telekinesis so hard that it breaks the hinge of the car door and he goes tumbling backward into the dirt.

"What the—?" he yells.

I half-jump, half-fly out of the car, crossing the twenty feet between us in a second, straddle him, and grab a fistful of his shirt collar. A three-second beat passes between us. His eyes search mine and I try to sort through my thoughts, only to realize there's way too much going on there that neither of us wants to hash out. Just as I'm formulating where to begin, he breaks eye contact and hangs his head.

"Rachel, we've talked about this—" His arms go to my shoulders and he starts to push me away, but I restrain him with my mind. His eyes lift back to mine, and I can see he realizes exactly what I intend to do.

"Look," I whisper. "This is going to happen whether you like it or not."

"We're only a few miles from S.H.I.E.L.D's base. They could track us here in no time. Then what?"

"Then we kill them all."

His eyes flick to mine again. Something deliciously dark lurks there. But just as fast as it came, he shoves it back, and clears his throat to argue with me again. Before he can say another word, I backhand him across the face.

And then everything changes. In one moment, that darkness comes rushing back into his eyes, his jaw muscle tightens into a knot, and his crotch hardens against my shorts. I release my TK hold on him. It's like un-caging a beast.

He lifts me bodily, like some kind of doll, and throws me on my back against the sand. The force of the slam is more than I'm prepared for, and it knocks the wind out of me. His knees land on either side of my hips. He kisses me, powerfully, passionately, almost savagely, and the taste of my blood throws all thoughts from both our minds.

* * *

The desert night is cool. The sweet smell of Rachel is all around me, and it's down-right intoxicating. Her head's restin' on my chest and my brain's spinnin'.

_What the fuck just happened?_ That's the second time those words have gone through my head in 'bout sixty minutes. _Life's about to get damn interesting. I don't know if this is a good idea. No doubt she's amazin' in the sack, but this is a whole new level of complicated, ever for me, and the last thing I need is a bigger dose o' complicated!_

And then my mind really wanders. I start combin' through old memories. I think on the years I spent wanderin' through the wilderness, my humanity completely lost, the years I was trapped by S.H.I.E.L.D., bouncin' back and forth between their human guinea pig and their living weapon, the years I wasted with the lame-ass Brotherhood, followin' Magneto 'round like his brainwashed fuckin' bodyguard, and all the many years I had to run from one country to the next, dodgin' military soldiers, national defense specialists, organized crime moguls, and my own personal enemies. _Life's always interestin'_, I decide. _Besides, I'm not gonna complain 'cause this beautiful fuckin' sex kitten wants to be my Frail._

"You weren't bad yourself," she murmurs, "but what's a 'frail'?"

"What?"

"You're always changing my name." I look at her for second, wonderin' what the hell she's talkin' 'bout.

"Your name for me," she goes on. "When you first brought me home, you wouldn't call me anything. After a while, you starting giving me nicknames—anything from 'Pup' to 'Red'. You just said I wanted to be your 'Frail'. What's a Frail?"

The question catches me off-guard. Several things pop into my head all at once, and I can feel her there, readin' every one of those thoughts in a second. The first image is of some whore, bleedin' all over the place, about to die to satisfy my blood lust. The last one is of Raven, naked and stradlin' me in bed, her hands on my chest, throwin' back her red hair with a laugh. I don't even know where to begin my answer. Then it occurs to me that, literally minutes after our first time, I'm already bein' asked uncomfortable questions. "Er-"

She giggles into my shoulder. Amazing. I'm waitin' for the start of a fight, and here she's laughin'. "Relax, Victor," she chuckles. "I'm not asking you to _define the relationship or anything_. It was just a name I hadn't heard before." She kisses one of my ribs.

My ears pick up choppers about two miles out. "Sounds like time to get goin'."


	13. The Switch

Seven Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 15 Years Old

I could be home right now, a beer in one hand and my frail in 'nother, buck-ass naked and warm in my bed. Instead, I'm stuck in the frozen wasteland of B.F.E Ukraine. It's not like the cold bothers me. But the job's a damn suicide mission, and I don't like her bein' out there on her own. The plan is simple: I run in, balls to the wall, an' take in the heavy artillery. Then she goes in behind me and sweeps the docs while everyone else is busy dealin' with Hurricane Victor. Problem is, Raye don't usually stick to the plan.

_Damn frail._ She's the girl of my wet dreams, no doubt 'bout that, but fuck, she can be one helluva pain in the ass. We fight like cat 'n dogs. 'Course, the make-up sex is always well worth it. But I can't get the girl to listen to a word I say these days. She is hands-down the most stubborn female I've ever met, an' I've been around a while. Most of our scuffles are just 'cause she wants to prove to me she's just as much of a bad-ass as me. As if I don't already know.

A Jeep rolls up as normally scheduled and the gate opens. I rise from my crouch and the gateman start opening fire. While the horns sound off overhead, twenty nine soldiers unload from the Jeep. Fuckin idiots. It don't take a genius to figure out that if an intruder approaches, you might want to close up your base before you start worryin' about firepower. Then I hear the boom of the bazooka an' realize just why they weren't too worried 'bout my threat. I take the blast square in the chest, and it knocks me off my feet into the snow. The second I can breathe again, I smell iron. Then, I let go to the bloodlust an' it's business as usual.

I'm vaguely aware of fightin' through soldiers and bullet spray. I don't even see their faces; all I know is slash, grab, throw, jab, uppercut, kick, bite, jump, tackle, elbow, gun, fire, target down, fire, target down, fire, target down, charge. The sniper's back crashes against the brick an' I can hear his vertebra snap. He drops. I pick up the bazooka, take aim & unleash a small missile at each gun tower. As mortar and bodies fly everywhere, I'm runnin' across the field on all fours. But a crowd of footmen are out 'fore I even reach the outer wall. I scan the heads in clusters of ten an' count eighty or so. _That means another hundred inside. She's got no time!_

I make a sharp right and head straight for the general's quarters. I infiltrated the Ukraine Special Forces for a short time so I know exactly what their contingency plan is for highest ranking officer attacks. Sure enough, the horns turn to a wail, and the entire fleet of soldiers pours onto the yard, trying to head me off. They'll leave only seven inside, but they'll be the base elite. No matter. Raye'll kill them in no time. Then, she'll duck out before anyone even knows the papers are missin'. Haven't quite figured out how I'm gettin' out. This _is why I don't take a job with less than a month's notice, damnit!_

The first man sweeps my ankles and we go crashing into the sleet-crusted ground. I kill him and a dozen of his buddies but in no time, they've got me with sheer numbers. They cuff my wrists and throw me to my knees. The circle parts and I'm lookin' up into the eyes of General Ustim Pavlenko. _Back when I knew him, it was Sergeant Pavlenko_.

"Viktor," he says through that ol' familiar smirk. _Bastard_. "How do you Americans say? 'Long time, no see', yes?"

"I'm Canadian." I spit through a mouthful of blood.

"Oh? According to whom? My guess is they do not have you on their books. My guess is we could throw you in the hole for a decade, and no country would come to your aid this time." He looks up at the rubble of his base and the smile fades from his face. "Men!" he barks in Russian. "Your performance was pathetic! Have you not trained to deal with freaks like this man?"

He points his .49 at the forehead of a lieutenant. The man shakes but remains in attention. "When a mutant with increased strength attacks, how do you deal with him?"

The soldier's eyes stray to the left and Pavlenko cocks the gun. "I am not asking them. I ask you! How do you deal with him?"

"Cut off his legs." He says in Russian. His eyes squint at the general, and somethin' passes between them for a second. I'm guessin' they're not friends.

"Yes, you cut off his legs." Pavlenko pulls the trigger and the soldier's body slumps to the ground. He turns to the rest of his soldiers. "A man with the all the strength in the world can do nothing if he cannot move."

He turns the glock on me and fires two rounds, each just above my kneecaps. I howl in pain, but don't attack. As much as I'd love to, I know that the longer everyone is distracted, the better chance Raye has to get in and get out. I take the pain and consider how many ways I'll rip him apart later. "Now," Pavlenko shouts, "clean this shit up! I will deal with the mutant."

The soldiers give their ass-backwards Ukrainian salute and turn to work. Meanwhile, Pavlenko takes my left arm and half drags me to his quarters. _Somethin's wrong here! There ain't no way he can carry my weight._

He shoves me to the ground inside the small palace and my legs collapse onto some Persian rug…right next to a corpse, a corpse that looks amazingly like General Ustim Pavlenko. I turn to the man who carried me in. His image flickers, like I'm lookin' at a tv or something. Then the general fades and Rachel is standin' in his place.

I blink twice, and close my gapin' mouth. I know a thing or two 'bout disguises. Disguises are one helluva a tricky thing. "How the hell—?"

She chuckles. "I just read the memory of Pavlenko from your own minds and projected it back to you all. It took no more effort than holding up a mirror."

As soon as I'm over the shock of it, another realization hits me. "You shot me?" She shrugs. "Why'd you fuckin' shoot me?"

"Shh!" she hushes me. "Lower your voice or they'll think there's a scuffle, and burst in to rescue me! Aren't you healed yet, anyway?"

"Just barely," I grumble.

"Well, then, 'stop yer belly achin'," she says, quoting me. "I've got the documents. You grab Pavlenko. There's a car ready just out the back door."

"In a minute." I twirl her to face me, put one hand under each of her butt cheeks, hoist her up around my waist, and thrust her roughly against the wall. I kiss her neck and scrape my fangs hard on her shoulder until I hear her muffled scream. "Don't fuckin' shoot me again," I order in a hoarse whisper. She nods, grabs a fistful of my hair with one hand, and unzips my fly with her other.

* * *

As I'm drivin' down the windy mountain road, I can't get her breasts out of my mind. Or her mile-long legs. Or that crazy sexy spot between those legs where the muscles 'round her pussy flex.

"Better distract yourself," she says. "You're getting hard again."

I chuckle, then realize she's right. "Why'd you kill the soldier?"

"Hmm?"

"That soldier, back at the base. Why'd you pull the trigger?"

She shrugs. "Why not?

"Because he wasn't the target?" I suggest.

She looks sideways at me. "Based on the memories I pulled from you and the others of Pavlenko, he was a horrible man. Insanely cruel. I had to pull off a truly convincing fake because we couldn't chance someone walking into his quarters to check on me. I needed them to really believe that I was him, and to think I was in no mood for questions." Her scent turns kinda cloudy.

I keep my stare ahead. "You know, Red, I don't have to be psychic to know when yer lyin'. You've been in my head. You know me inside and out, and I know you, too. Why the hell would you ever have to lie to me?"

She turns away and stares out the window.

* * *

_Why would I ever have to lie to you, Victor?_ I suppress the urge to sigh. If he only knew the many lies I've told him, my friend, my lover, my partner, my soul mate. This job wasn't about the papers at all. Granted, since we were already going in, the Americans figured we could go ahead and pick those up at the same time. They've needed proof that Ukraine was building and shipping Iran's nuclear warhead program for years. But, no, we went in for Brezhnev, the soldier who assassinated one of our top super soldiers.

The Ukranians made all the right moves after he killed Maverick. They framed one of their highest spies, who had recently gone rouge and pissed off a lot of upper management, for the job. They gave Brezhnev a new name, reassigned him to a middle-of-nowhere, good-for-nothing base, where no one knew him, and where he could lay low for six months to a year. But, luckily for us, we have spies within their intelligence department.

When the call for the hit came in, I happened to answer the phone. I took the job for my old godfather, Wolverine, who was Maverick's closest teammate, and who would've wanted his assassin dead. But I lied to Victor about the mission, because I knew the complex fight that would ensue. While Maverick and Sabretooth certainly weren't friends, they were teammates, blood brothers, and that goes deeper than any disagreements they had during their SHIELD days. Still, Victor would've known, especially if he asked me and my scent changed, the real reason that I wanted to kill the man. He would've known that my allegiance is still deeper to Logan than it is to the man I love. Victor Creed doesn't know the meaning of the word insecurity—except when it comes to Wolverine.

And I have tried and tried, but have yet to master the art of masking my pheromones around him. After combing through his memories, I learned that he has the power of chemoreception, which gives him the ability, like many animals, to read the chemical stimuli around him through taste and smell. I now know how to interpret the different smells the human body gives off. The problem is that I don't know how to access his sense of smell. Like most people, I haven't memorized the map of the human brain. If I could find a neurosurgeon, or any doctor for that matter, I could take the information from their memory bank. But hours of stretching my mind as far as I possibly can have yet to turn up anyone with med school experience. We live in the middle of absolutely nowhere now, and even though I'm able to look out almost a hundred miles, I've only located a handful of other minds in our mountain range.

"That's a lot of thinkin' yer doing there, Frail. You gonna share?"

I flash him my brightest smile. "Do you know there isn't anyone else on the planet I'd rather kill people with?"

He smiles back. "I love you, too, Frail." It's the first time he's ever said the words out loud. There is no change in his voice, no dramatic pause, he doesn't even glance my away, but the words hit my like a punch in the face.

_I love you. I love you. I love you_. I play the words back in my mind over and over again. For some reason, they make me feel even worse.

* * *

The girl looks back out the window again and I can tell I'm not gettin' another word outta her. She makes me worry. Which ain't somethin' I do often, and especially not for others. She's not been the same for a long time. Ever since she killed the SHIELD agent back last year, it's like a switch went off in her head. Sure, she's been sexy, deadly, witty and dark—everything I could ever ask outta a woman, but she's all been distracted, withdrawn, moody, and down-right depressed at times. And she hates herself. I've tried ignorin' that fact for a while, but I know it's true. A few times, I've smelled mercury in her chest, and when I asked her what she was thinking, she scratched her arms or shoulders, all absent-minded-like. What she don't know is that scratching is body language for self frustration.

Fightin' the urge to sigh, I feel her fingers wrap around mine. We stare out the window, both lost in our own thoughts. And we drive.


	14. Expert Witness

Seven Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 15 Years Old

Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. I can't stop myself. One more time, I play it again. I hit pause. The frozen image bounces in black and white on an outdated lil' security camera, and I feel like someone just peeled my eyelids back two inches or so. Her eyes, those big, deep, burnin' eyes, like emeralds, so bright, you can almost feel the green hidin' underneath all that gray. Her hair, in thick, sweepin' curls all the way down her back. Her pouty lips, just slightly parted. Her cheekbones. Her fierce stare. Her perfect jaw line.

"We picked it up from Angola," Nick Fury says, soundin' far-off. "They assassinated the would-be President-Elect. What we can't seem to figure out is if it's really Jean and Victor or not."

I shake my head. "I dunno."

"Come on, Logan," he growls impatiently.

"What, Fury? Yer seein' the same thing as me. What do ya expect me to say?"

"No one knows these two better than you. We need to know if it's really them, do you understand? Men in suits are going to make big decisions based on this simple question: Who is this?" His finger points at her hip.

I clear my throat and run a hand through my hair. "Alright, it's like this. First, she's got a scar on her forehead. The Jean I know has lots of scars, but none on her face. Second, the Jean I know despises Sabretooth. She'd never work with him. Third, the Jean I know is anythin' but an assassin."

"But she has killed people."

"Never in cold blood, never for political reasons, and sure hell never for money!"

Fury puts his hand up to signal peace. "Okay, so let me ask another way. Is this Phoenix? Is this Dark Phoenix? Or is this some alternate-reality-version of Jean?"

"Well, we can rule out Dark Phoenix," I say immediately.

"Why?"

"You wouldn't have to ask if you'd ever stood face-to-face to the bitch."

"Fair enough. Good old, regular Phoenix?"

"Yeah, I think we can rule that out, too. For one thing, she's committing murder."

"Yes, but Phoenix has been confused by others before, especially in one of those rise-from-the-dead scenarios. Doesn't she usually lose her memory, at least temporarily? That would explain her working with Sabretooth. If he could tell her things about herself that she vaguely remembers, she might mistake him for a friend and align herself with him."

I shake my head. "No, I think that's out, too. Jean didn't have a scar on her forehead when she died last. If this was a Phoenix from the ashes deal, she wouldn't have acquired a new scar."

"Well, I know Phoenix doesn't typically get hurt but if she was newly risen and disoriented—"

"No."

"Or if—"

"Again, if you'd ever fought Phoenix in person, you'd stop right there. 'Course, SHIELD doesn't like getting' their hands dirty, so—"

"Alright. Point taken. So you think this is Jean and Victor from an alternate reality, then?"

"Yer gonna have to make the decision 'bout what to tell the suits. That's not why I'm here. I'm here to tell you if that could be Jean, Phoenix or Dark Phoenix. I'm tellin' you it's none of the three." I turn tail and head for the door.

"Logan, wait. You didn't answer my other question. Is that the Victor Creed that you and I both know?"

I don't bother answerin', 'cause he and I both know it don't matter. The suits don't care if the Creed standin' next to her is the real Creed or not. They only care 'bout the global threat that is the endless cycle of Jean Grey, Phoenix, Dark Phoenix, death, resurrection, Jean Grey, Phoenix, Dark Phoenix. But the truth is, yes, it is the Victor Creed that he and I both know. And that makes me very uncomfortable. What the fuck is Creed doin' with Jean, whatever version of her he found?

But he puts his hand on my shoulder and I look back at him. "It is him, isn't it?" There's something screamin' in his eyes. I turn 'round. He stares down the other agent in the room, and without a word, she leaves, closing the door behind her. Now he's got me curious.

"Look," Nick says, "About a year back, we had an attack. It was Creed—THE Creed-and a teenage girl that was described to me as 'If I didn't know better, I'd say it was Jean Grey twenty years ago'. They didn't take anything. They didn't demand anything. They killed only four men, and of the four, one was killed by a TK bolt."

When it hits me, my heart starts poundin' in my chest. "I need to see anythin' and everythin' you've got on the Summers Family Reunion Massacre."


	15. The Fight

Eight Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 16 Years Old

These days, I only really feel alive when I'm on a job. It's like the longer I live with Victor, the more I become like him. I've adopted his sick sense of humor and his brooding, self-destructive behavior. I've also inherited his animalistic instincts and his bloodlust. As I tear through an entire fleet of security, the echo of a tiny voice reminds me that these men are husbands and fathers, that with each life I destroy, I'm ripping apart families, the way my family was ripped apart, the way my life was destroyed. A part of me hates myself for it. Yet another part of me longs for the thrill of danger, for the adrenaline of narrow survival, and for the blood of…well, for blood.

_Better pay attention,_ I remind myself, _before you get your head blown off._

_Please_, a much louder voice answers. _I could pull this off in my sleep!_

I'm on the fifth floor of the Norwegian Embassy in New York. My target is some sniveling bureaucrat who sold his entire nation for a buck. Or a billion bucks. I got through the lobby security with ease. But with the amount of bodies on the first floor, there was no way to do it without sounding the alarm. The Norwegian bureaucrat is now locked tight in a panic room, flanked by about three dozen bodyguards. _Piece of cake._

I round the corner and stride down the hallway, masking my image from their minds so that I might as well be invisible. As I pass the first guard, I put one hand on either side of his skull and twist, snapping his spinal cord. His co-workers, recognizing the sound instantly, turn on their heels to face me before his body even slumps to the ground. I lower my guise, appearing out of thin air to their eyes, and shoot a TK bolt at each of the seven men. My aim is true. The first eight are dead in less than ten seconds.

Three soldiers shoot handguns at me, protected, they believe, by the door jam they're crouched behind. The bullets dematerialize into dust just a few inches from my forehead. I grab hold of their minds and effectively shut them down, leaving their vegetable bodies twitching on the floor behind me. When I turn into the office, I'm met by twenty or so footmen. _Now the real fun._

For the first guard, I deliver a strong front kick, laced with telekinesis, sending him flying back into two of his buddies, and all three of them are dead on impact. The next two come rushing at me. I block their attacks and gather the static from my entire body into my hands, electrocuting them. Then the next round advances, and everything's a blur of kicks and punches, but I duck two simultaneous attacks, and crouch into a low roundhouse, sending a TK blade out from my toes, which severs all their feet from their ankles. They fall to the ground screaming. Apparently inspired by their comrades' failed attempts at hand-to-hand combat, the remaining men pull out automatic weapons. A thin shield holds the hundreds of bullets at bay. For a little extra fun, I telekinetically manipulate the molecules of a few shells to form a long knife, larger than a machete. Mercilessly, I slash my last four victims into pieces. Stepping over the body parts, I face the safe room's five-inch thick steel. _This is the best protection money can buy. Hah!_

I combine the oxygen atoms in the air with the elements of iron, carbon, and sulfur in the steel. The resulting fire melts the steel spontaneously, leaving a gaping hole for me to walk through. Sniveling Mr. Bureaucrat is hiding his face from me, curled into the fetal position, with his hands over his head, crying in fear. I roll my eyes. _At least he didn't piss himself. _Grabbing him by his fancy shirt collar, I drag him out into the mayhem of the adjourning room; then I drop him in the middle of his slaughtered minions.

Victor walks through the doorway, covered from shoulders to boots in blood, and surveys the massacre approvingly. It appears his mission was also a success. He crouches in front of the Norwegian with a sinister smile.

"Do we need to interrogate him?" he asks me without looking up.

I shrug. "If you're in the mood, I guess. But I've already got the information we need."

He places one huge hand around the man's thin neck and squeezes until we both hear that familiar crack of bone.

"Ugh, I hate that sound."

My head snaps up at the source of a female voice. Standing in the doorway, naked as a jaybird, covered in midnight blue scales, is Raven Darkholme, call sign Mystique, Victor's ex. She puts one dainty hand on her voluptuous hip and cocks her head at me with a smirk. "So, you're Creed's latest play thing?"

It takes a lot of effort not to glare at her. _Or kill her_. But I manage to ignore the comment, and turn instead to Victor. "We done here?"

He rises with a short nod. "Let's go."

We each shimmy past her in the doorway and head down the hallway. She calls after us, "Think about what I said, Creed."

I wait until we're in the stairwell to ask the inevitable question. "What did she say?"

The next instant, I feel like I just got hit by a truck. Without any warning, Victor grabs me by both shoulders and slams me hard against the wall, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

"Why didn't you tell me 'bout the Pavlenko mission?" he screams, his fangs inches from face.

"What?" The loss of air makes me feel stupid and my brain fails to work for a second.

"Don't make me repeat myself. You know what I'm talkin' about."

I switch gears, trying to by myself time to think. "Let me guess. Mystique planted some idea in your head about—"

"She _showed_ me the order. The job wasn't 'bout nuclear warheads. It wasn't even 'bout Pavlenko. It was 'bout Brezhnev murderin' Maverick."

"What do you care?"

"You obviously thought I'd care, or you wouldn'a lied to me."

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you! Because I knew you'd blow the whole thing out of proportion."

"Out of proportion? You _**LIED**_ to me, bitch! You intercepted the call, you took the job without consulting me 'bout it, and you lied to me 'bout the mission. How many times have you intercepted calls like that?"

"Never…well, just that once. I didn't—"

"Just that once? Why?"

I hang my head. We can go around in these circles for hours, but we're going to end up in the same spot. I've got to tell him the whole truth. And he's not going to like it.

"_**Why'd you lie to me, Frail?" **_he whispers, acid in his voice.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice controlled. "I took the mission to avenge Maverick. I knew it was what Logan would've wanted. I also knew you wouldn't be happy about the idea of me taking any job on account of Logan. Now, I really don't feel that's a punishable offense. The man _is_ my friend. He _is_ my god father. But you—"

"Is? He _**was**_ your god father."

Now he's gone too far. Despite myself, I feel my tempers flare. "Only because you took me away!"

"Yeah, I took you away. But that was, what? Eight years ago! If the man cares for you so much, then where the fuck is he? Why hasn't he come bustin' down the door to rescue you?"

"I know what you're doing. You're trying to make me angry at him. Trying to make me deflect my frustration with you onto him. Hoping it'll break my trust in him."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Frail."

He starts to turn away from me, and his condescending tone cuts the last straw of my patience. My nostrils flare, and I yell, "You're so insecure!"

He whips back around to face me. "'Xcuse me?" There's something dangerous in his growl, but I'm so angry I just don't care. I push on.

"You heard me. You strut around like your cock's too big for your britches. But when it comes to Logan, you're fucking paralyzed at the thought that he might be better than you at, at anything!" We face off, both of our chests heaving in anger. Then I whisper, "It must fucking _kill_ you that I might love him more than you."

His reaction is so fast, I don't even have time to sense it coming. He backhands me, sending me to the floor. My vision goes black, and all I can see are stars. I feel another blow to my right jaw. Then another to the left temple. Then he kicks me in the gut, so forcefully, I feel my knees leave the floor. I cough blood, gasping for breath. For a moment, I see the blur of his boots. Then I hear him yell, "FUCK!" just before I black out entirely.

* * *

Her words bite at me like knives. "It must fucking _kill_ you that I might love him more than you."

I just lose it. I see red, and I don't even realize I'm layin' into her. But then she loses consciousness and her body slumps, and somethin' in me snaps out of it. It takes a second but then what I just did hits me full in the face.

"FUCK!" Both my hands claw at my face. I bend in half and roar into my hands, **"FUUUUCK!"**

I back away til I'm leanin' 'gainst the wall opposite her body. She's just unconscious. I didn't do anythin' that could kill her. But I just fucked things up in a real big way.

_How the fuck did I do this again_? No matter how good things start out, I somehow always end up here. I thought things would be diff'rent with Rachel. I love her. I truly love her. Like I've never loved anyone before. But she was right. It does fuckin' kill me that she might love Wolverine more than me. And let's face it, he was her hero long 'fore she was my frail.

I start rackin' my brain. What happens now? Does she leave me? I try to imagine it. Where would she go? To the X-Mansion, of course. Part of me wonders why she hasn't before. I guess that was because of me. Then again, she's no delicate lil' thing. She could always find her own place, find her own work, and live her own life, free of me and my issues, free of the X-Geeks and their drama. Just the thought of that makes somethin' in my belly ache. No. I won't accept that shit.

Fuck it. I know I don't deserve her. And I know that what I just did ain't right. But I've been takin' care of her for the past eight years, when apparently the X-Men abandoned her. I've been the one to hold her at night, to protect her from Sinister, to teach her to defend herself against any evil this world can throw her way. I sure as hell ain't perfect, and I know she's been there for me a helluva lot more than I have for her. But Rachel belongs to me.

I bend down, scoop up her lifeless body, carry her outta the stairwell, lay her in the back seat of my truck, and start the long drive home.


	16. Headstones And Memories

Nine Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 17 Years Old

This place really brings back memories. Memories I'd rather forget. It's been way too long since the last time I visited the cemetery. I've been avoidin' it somethin' fierce. Every time I come out, I start gettin' all nostalgic, an' it's like I've lost them all over again. Usually just leads to me huntin' down Creed; then we fight for a day or two; we each lose some limbs; one of us bleeds out; the other walks away feelin' like the winner for a lil' while, knowin' the loser's just gonna wake up in some hospital a few days later. There's never any resolution. He will always be this thorn in my side. But this time he went too damn far.

The Summers family burial site is the prettiest little graveyard I've ever seen, and I've seen my fair share of graves. Twenty or so total, it's got its own section in the X-Mansion Cemetery, gated off from the rest of our fallen friends. Smack dab in the middle, on the top of a hill, is Scott's giant cross with the x logo beneath it, the words, "Leader of the X-Men.," and below that, "Beloved Husband, Father, and Friend." To the right, Jean's plot is topped with an ornate, six-foot statue of a phoenix bird. 'Course, there's nothing beneath the headstone. Jean rose from this bit of earth decades back, and she didn't leave her remains in the desert nine years ago. Everyone knows it's only a matter of time 'fore she resurfaces again, but who knows how long I'll have to wait this go 'round.

I turn to Rachel's headstone, underneath a four-foot statue of the girl sittin' with her chin on both hands, which're rested on a propped knee, lookin' up as if at her father's cross. Her expression's thoughtful, her eyes bright. 'Fore Piotr carved this image outta stone, it was a photo. I remember the day it was taken.

* * *

Three Months Before Capture

Rachel's Age: 8 Years Old

"Thanks, Raye!" Kitty says, turnin' the camera to take a picture of another student.

Rachel turns her mother's deep eyes back on me. "Well?" she prompts. She can be down-right demandin', especially for an eight-year old.

I chuckle and pull her into my lap. I wrap my arms 'round her tight and kiss the top of her head, breathin' in that scent that reminds me so much of her mother.

"I'm not going to forget just because you hug me, you know!"

"I know, darlin'." I squeeze a little tighter, but she wriggles away to look me in the eyes again. Her brow is furrowed, and she's lookin' positively pissed.

"Logan, I don't want you to go. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"I'm sorry, darlin'. I don't want to go, either. But I've got things I need to take care of. If things need takin' care of, and you ignore them, that's when bad stuff happens. 'Sides, I'll be back. You know that, right?"

She pouts. "Yes. But when?"

"I dunno. As soon as I possibly can. Ya've got my word on that." Another squeeze. This time she reciprocates.

"You're not gonna stop him," she says.

I take her chin in my hand and force her to meet my eyes. "Who?" I ask.

"The man you're hunting. Whoever he is. He's just gonna get away like he always does."

I let out a huge sigh. "Rachel, darlin', how many times do I have to tell you? I do not want you readin' my mind." I put a huge emphasis on the "not" and she winces a little at my tone.

"Sorry,:" she says. "But I have a psychic bond with Mommy, so when she reads your mind, I feel it, too."

I start to panic, thinking of my conversation with Jean last night, and the kiss that ended it. "Rachel, what did you feel last night?"

She doesn't smile or giggle or frown, or do any of the things you'd expect an eight-year old to do when talking about a secret romance. As usual, she surprises the hell outta me with her understandin' eyes and her simple, frank talk. "It's okay, Logan. I know Mommy's heart is broken into two pieces—one for you, and one for Daddy. Daddy knows, too, but he doesn't like to think about it much. Mommy stormed off because you broke the rules, kissing her. She's married to Daddy, so she only has kisses for him. But she still always has love for you."

I'm at a loss for words. How the hell do I respond to that? "Rachel—"

"It's okay, Logan," she says again. "Of course I won't talk to anyone else about it. It's nobody else's business." And she flashes me that million-dollar smile.

* * *

Nine Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 17 Years Old

If I'd known at the time that it was gonna be our last conversation, I would'a forgotten 'bout Creed and just stayed put. My ears prick up. Mystique comes up the garden path, click-clackin' in three-inch heels, and smellin' of way too much perfume.

"Taking a trip down memory lane?" she taunts, her tone dripping with sex for no apparent reason, as usual.

"Don't fuck with me. You got somethin' good or not?"

Rolling her eyes, she says, "I gotta say, Wolverine, I'm surprised you called me, of all people. I mean, we're _such_ good friends and all." She leans a hip against Jean's phoenix headstone. Since I know she's doin' it to piss me off, I try not to react. "You've got a whole house full of psychics." She jerks her head back toward the Mansion. "Why didn't you have one of them go looking for your girl?"

"Trust me, I did."

* * *

Two Months After Capture

Rachel's Age: 8 Years Old

Emma Frost's hands are shakin' as she removes Cerebo's helmet. "Nothing," she says again, rubbing her temples. Her voice is strained. I curse and kick the wall with one steel-toed boot.

Cerebro's voice, soundin' just like Xavier, echoes from overhead. "Do not deflect your frustrations upon me, Wolverine. It is not appreciated, especially as I have yet to hear a single word of thanks from either of you over the past three weeks."

"What's to thank?" I mutter beneath my breath. "We haven't turned anythin' up in three weeks."

"And I suppose that is my fault?" he snaps back. Sometimes I forget how sensitive Cerebro's AI can be.

"The machine's right, Logan," Emma sighs. "If we haven't found her in three weeks, we won't find her in three months, or in three years."

"Look, Rachel wasn't at the murder scene. Her scent disappeared at a truck stop several miles away. She wasn't at the Mesa when I tracked down Creed. So where the hell is she?"

"I'm sure I don't know. But isn't it possible Sabretooth killed her along with the others, carried her to the truck stop, put her in a car, which would encase and contain her scent, and hid the body somewhere else? If the whole point of the massacre was to lure you out to the Mesa, he certainly couldn't leave her at the scene."

I grind my teeth at the thought of my Rachel as a corpse.

"Look, I know this isn't pleasant for you, but you need to consider that she may be dead." I shake my head but she goes on, "I searched every single psychic on this planet. Only a handful of them are anywhere near the power level you're talking about, and not a single one was under the age of twelve. So I broadened my search. I looked through all the young mutant girls, figuring maybe, for some reason, Cerebro's not picking her up as a psychic unless she's using her psi powers."

"I am not malfunctioning," came Xavier's indignant voice through Cerebro again. "I can detect any mutant's ability regardless of the frequency with which they use—"

"SHUT UP!" we both yell.

Emma turns to me again. "Logan, I've searched a dozen different criteria. We've spent countless hours in this room. What do you want me to do?"

"Frost, I can't give up on my goddaughter."

"What's to give up on? Please, if you can think of a single thing to do, tell me. But we're just banging our heads against a brick wall, here."

I hang my head, and she puts a comfortin' hand on each of my shoulders. If I weren't so upset, I'd be shocked that she's showin' compassion for another human being. When did the White Queen grow a heart?

"I'm sorry, love," she says. And she sounds like she means it. "The bottom line is that I cannot locate an eight-year old, female psychic anywhere on this planet."

* * *

Nine Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 17 Years Old

"Wolverine? Where'd you go?"

I shake myself outta yesterday and look up at Mystique. "I had all the best psychics look for her. Xavier. Psylocke. Frost. The Stepford freaks. Karma. I even pissed off Chuck by givin' Oracle access to Cerebro. Every single one of 'em said she was dead."

"Weird," Mystique says, squintin' her eyes in suspicion. "Well, I can assure you, she most definitely is not dead." She hands me a video camera. I click the power button, and a black-and-white image of Creed and Rachel appears. I've spent a lotta hours watchin' security feed of these two over the last year, and judgin' by the quality of the video, their target must'a been someone big this time. I hit play. They're in a stairwell. There's no sound, but I don't need to hear the bang to know that when he slams her against the wall, he uses enough force to dent drywall. It sends a jolt through me, like he hit me instead. I watch him strike her. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he kicks her in the gut. She goes limp. He shouts and paces the landin' of the stairs.

Mystique takes the thing out of my hand, and I realize that I'm breathin' through my mouth and my face an' neck are all hot. "How do I find them?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"That's just the thing. You don't."

"What do ya mean?"

"I mean he's crazy protective of her."

"'Protective?' He's beating her!"

"Maybe possessive is a better word. Look, several years back, Sinister had a bounty out on her. It was huge, too. Word on the street is that Creed was nearly killed protecting her from him."

"Trust me, he wasn't."

"Anyway, ever since, they've been hermits. No one has any idea where they live. The phone number that he's set up for job offers is encrypted. I've hired two of the best hackers, and neither could trace his location."

"You mean you two aren't fuck buddies anymore?"

"Not since she came along."

My stomach clenches and for a moment, I might actually be sick. "No. No, no, no, no. Don't tell me he's screwin' her."

Mystique shrugs. "This is Victor we're talking about. Of course he is."

There's a long pause while I mull this last bit over. I guess a part of me knew, deep down, that was a possibility. That don't make me like it any more.

She breaks the silence. "If you want to catch up to them, you'll have to do it in the middle of a mission."

I just nod. My head feels foggy. I'm still tryin' to digest all this.

"And look, Wolverine, you should know…" she trails off.

I look up. "What?"

"She's not the little girl you used to know. She's changed. A lot."

I cut her off before she says somethin' that'll make me punch her. "You don't know what's it's like."

"No, really—"

"No, _really_. You don't know how being someone's captive, someone's weapon, strips away your humanity. It makes you do horrible things. It makes you hate yourself. You don't have a fuckin' clue what yer talking 'bout."

She turns to leave but says over her shoulder, "Just be careful. That's all I'm saying."


	17. SuperLoudEmptyDeadQuiet

Nine Years After Capture

Rachel's Age: 17 Years Old

My knees ache from crouchin' an' for a second I get a flash of déjà vu. Nothing concrete comes; no details like time or location. But I remember crouching in some hole in the ground—literally—waitin' out an enemy in foreign lands, sittin' back-to-back with Victor, huddled in the dark together, tryin' to keep warm and watchin' each other's backs. Every now an' then, I get these images of the two of us actin' like best buds, and it makes me wonder. Did I use to be more like Creed, or did he used to be more like me?_ Or both…_

The trap is set. Mystique helped me set up this lil' mission. She chose the location, one of only a dozen countries that Creed has never had any reason to visit. She called in the job on his encrypted phone. For kicks, we asked Forge to trace the call, but neither of us was a bit surprised when he gave the "no go" look. She even called in a few favors to set up the scenery, employ the minions, and make everythin' look exactly right. _I'm gonna owe her big for this. _And owin' Mystique is never good. But it'll be worth it if I can get Rachel home safe in the end.

I hear quick, small footsteps from 'bout a mile off. A second later, I catch her scent, confirmin' what my ears have already told me. I would know that scent in an instant anywhere, even if I hadn't been strainin' for it for over an hour. When Rachel was born, when I got my first good smell of her, I was put flat on my backside. Her scent is the exact same as Jean's. Not a similar scent, the exact same. Even among brothers, among mother and daughter, among _twins_, there is usually some difference in the scent. A person's scent is as individualized and unique as a thumbprint. This is why I've always had a sneaky suspicion that Rachel is actually a clone of Jean, not just her daughter. And I can't help but notice she didn't get anything from Scott. Not a single physical characteristic, facial feature, not any of his powers, not even a personality trait. I can't help thinkin' that if Phoenix can manipulate matter at the molecular level, she might be able to "create" life in Jean's womb. Maybe it's no coincidence that Jean Grey got pregnant when she desperately wanted a child, when she and Scott had been tryin' for one for a year, without success.

Rachel's fast. Not quick, not swift, not the speed of someone who's been trained in running. No, this is not human fast; we're talkin' mutant fast. In the time it takes me to mull this over, she's already here, in the clearing, 'bout to race past me 'fore I even have the chance to think what to do. But I'm lucky. One of our guys, dressed in classic Hellion garb, is waitin' for her, and I hear the cock of his gun. I peer from 'round the stone column I'm hidin' behind. Even though I know 'xactly what I'm lookin' for, I'm absolutely stunned. My breath catches in my throat.

She is beautiful, strong, practic'ly glowing. She is perfection. Her legs are golden-brown, covered in lean muscles, and they're standin' slightly more than shoulder-length apart, facin' her opponent square, not angled in a fightin' stance. She's not standin' like someone that's ready for fight or flight. She's preparin' to absorb a blow. She's not even a lil' afraid of the gun; she plans to take the hit. _Why?_

My eyes move from her thick boots, up her legs, which seem to go on forever, to her skin-tight mini shorts and tank top. I don't like seein' her in black patent leather. For one thing, she's dressed more like a villain than an X-Man. For another, the glossy leather catches every glimmer of light, enahncin' each curve of her body. Try as I might, it's impossible not to notice the perfectly round halos shinin' off her ass and her tits. Her arms are the same bikini model tan, with the same taut muscles flexed for a fight. Her round cheeks and pointed jaw make her face heart-shaped. A set of dazzlin' white teeth are bared in a fierce smirk. Her lips are so soft that a quick thought of stroking them with my thumb flashes through my head and I have to shake it away. Waves of hair fall down her back, almost to her waist. They're big, thick, curls of deep red, scarlet, or crimson or somethin'. One o' those romantic-soundin' colors, that're only used in storybooks 'bout magical lands, 'cause they're too rich for the real world. Two curls are danglin' from her forehead, hangin' over a perfectly manicured eyebrow and into her left eye.

I steel myself a second 'fore I look at the eyes. Her eyes are literally sparklin', light bouncin' off the lil' flecks of gold, set against a backdrop of bright emerald green. The last thing I take in is a huge breath o' her scent.

Yes, that intoxicatin' scent cloudin' my head, and those big, bright green eyes, almost make me forget that it's Rachel, and not Jean, I'm lookin' at. My gaze shifts up to the long, thin scar on her forehead. I'm positive Creed caused it. And I vow to myself that he will never lay another hand on her again.

The gun fires, wakin' me from my daydreams. And I learn it's not just a gun; it's a grenade launcher. The grenade hits Rachel square in the chest and explodes on impact. The explosion is massive! It shakes the ground and lights her on fire. Then a sonic boom sends a second wave of vibration beneath my feet. I'm about to scream, about to run to Rachel, about to find out just how badly her body is burned, and if she's survived at all, when the smoke around her disperses, leavin' her standin' straight up. Her body is on fire but she's still smilin'. The fire seeps into her limbs. _She's absorbin' it_. Her eyes are down-right mischevious, and she starts circlin' the gunman. She looks like a cat, playin' with its prey.

Mystique was wrong about one thing when she warned me two months ago. I _do_ have an idea 'bout the kind of young woman my goddaughter has become. From the moment I realized she was alive, I began to desperately search for her. With the help of Beast, and a new SHIELD agent Nick Fury assigned me, I located a lot of footage of her mercenary jobs with Creed. I watched for days. Video of her maskin' herself and then appearin' out of thin air; of her applyin' her telekinesis at the molecular level, like her mom used to, makin' it so that she can do basic'ly anything she wants; of her runnin' through squadrons of well-trained men like they're fuckin' children; of her slaughterin' people with joy, not just endurin' the blood but enjoyin' it, savorin' it. I think I know what kind of damage Creed has done to her mind. It's none o' her fault, of course. But she's dangerous, nonetheless, and I know she'll probably never be the same lil' girl I knew so many years ago. Before she murders the poor bastard across the meadow, I jump out from my hidin' place.

"Rachel!" I shout.

She spots me, and instead of softenin', she tightens her stance and her muscles flex just a lil' more. I walk slowly forward toward my goddaughter and nod to the decoy, signalin' him to get the hell outta dodge. He doesn't have to be told twice. He bolts in the opposite direction. I turn back to Rachel. She's squintin' at me, unmistakable suspicion in her eyes. _What is it?_ I ask myself. _Does she think I'm not really me, or does she think I __**am**__ myself, and I'm here to trap her?_

"Rachel, I can't believe it's you," I say. I walk closer, tryin' to close the gap between us. But for every few steps I take forward, she takes a step back.

* * *

I'm no psychic, but somethin' just don't feel right.

I don't know what it is, but it's drivin' me crazy. From the second I accepted the job and told Rachel the assignment detail, I've had a strange feelin' in my gut. At first, I thought maybe it was jus' because I've never been in this area 'fore. It's been a long time since I've had a job in a country that I don't know like the back of my hand, where I don't have any contacts to keep me informed of the local politics, to tip me off on any weird activity in the villages, to call in a favor if somethin' should go wrong durin' the mission. I told myself I was bein' suspicious, and tried to ignore my instincts.

But now that we're here, it's gotten much, much worse. The second our plane landed, my belly twisted and turned. Then, when we came under heavy fire power, and Rachel insisted we split up, I almost panicked. But what was I gonna say? "No, don't leave my side? Some intuition tells me things ain't right here, and the idea of you getting' hurt makes me sick?" Not only would I sound like a pussy, this really wouldn't do right now. Not after the fight we just had.

_Damn, it feels like all we ever do anymore is fuck and fight._ Things ain't been the same since I hit her several months ago. It's no surprise, of course. It's my own damn fault. And part of me wonders why the hell I even care. _Ten years ago, that would've been the description of my perfect relationship._ But I know that's not enough for me now. I'm hopelessly whipped for this girl. Hell, let's face it, I'm head-over-heels, lay-my-life-down, droolin'-like-a-puppy, let's-run-away-and-leave-it-all-behind, in love with her.

And the second the thought hits me, I'm wonderin' why I didn't do just that. I should'a packed my bags and taken Rachel far, far away, where no one could ever hurt her again, where me and her could've just disappeared for a lifetime or two.

_That's it!_ I crouch behind a boulder to buy myself time to think. Maybe that's exactly what we've needed all this time. We just gotta get away. Away from the jobs. Away from Mystique and her poisonous words. Away from all the enemies. Away from all the distractions. Go somewhere warm with white sands and palm trees. Forget this life. Lose track of days in bed, screwin' and laughin' and tellin' each other sweet nothings like two people that ain't never had a care in the world.

In less than a minute, I've made up my mind. Fuck the mission. I don't need the money and I don't give a damn what the client thinks. I'm gonna find my Frail, hold her in my arms, tell her that I love her and that I'll never hurt her again, take her by the hand, and run until we both can't walk no more.

I stand and turn to re-trace my steps. But suddenly, I'm reelin'. I drop to my knee, try to shake my head clear. _What the hell was that?_

* * *

Those eyes. His deep, sapphire eyes are staring at me, wide, piercing through me. My godfather is just ten paces away, and he's holding his hand out to me. He's finally come to take me away. He's going to save me. From the house. From this life. From HIM.

So why can't I reach back?

I'm standing here, dumb-founded, wanting nothing more than to grab his hand and fly far, far away. But I can't even raise my arm. I'm screaming inside, but I can't make a single sound. He's holding his hand out to me. But I'm trapped inside my own body, silent and frozen and numb.

* * *

There's this rushin' sound in my ears. It's somehow super-loud but empty-dead-quiet at the same time. It's not screamin'. It's not wind. It's nothing. But then why am I grabbin' my skull like somebody's shoutin' in my ear? _It's coming from inside me._

Then my line of sight goes soarin', even though I haven't moved a muscle, down the rock formation, over the jungle, and into a clearing. I see Wolverine, holdin' his hand out to Rachel. Somewhere deep inside me, I just know I'm 'bout to lose her. Feelin' desperate, half-choking, stumbling, I take off runnin' as fast as my four limbs can carry me.


End file.
